Crockett, California

Half passed 5 on an August morning in northern California,
I sit at a messy desk on Tenny Terrace in the town of Crockett
and look out across the water at the hills of Benicia.
Below me I see the roof of Mr. McAuliffe's house,
his chimney echoes the line of the telephone pole
where turkey vultures and squirrels will perch to sun themselves.

The trees in the ravine are mostly coast live oak and bay laurel.
Buckskin hills rise gradually up to hold high-power lines
that slice my view of the Carquinez Strait,
choppy in the morning breeze.
Dillon Point juts out on the north side
obscuring the cove where a small boat tilts.

A narrow band of orange smears along the eastern sky
lifting a lid of dark clouds holding down the approaching dawn.
A tear begins to open the line of clouds and
pink seeps into the yawning morning.