Tilden Park 3

After all these years
rolling on the same
wooded roads

Riding the cracked asphalt,
black ribbon running
like a man-made scab,

between the hidden waters of Orinda
and the tiny orange lights
of Berkeley

I think perhaps

in my ten-year-old car
as I climb the ridge
mount a broken shoulder

this wooded twilight

I blast my horn of lights
pretend the fawn
can understand

my mumbled call

as it tumbles on the wind
explodes on a hillside
like a runaway kite

my signal dropped:
first thoughts lost
to your guessed-at distance