There is nothing quite so wonderful
As being on the Western edge,
On the moment of movement, from one then to this now.
Street lights snake through the darkening valley,
Their wires strung beyond new pavement, and
Amber pouring into the soil-thick air -
My engine sings, piston to belt;
The swing of headlights catches an evening hawk
Alighting from a lamppost into dry tall grass - and
All is glowing within the night.
A mountain means many things in many places.
Two hawks dive in Red Rock Canyon
Wind blows and rocks stay.
Outside of the window of Westwood's Cafe Profeta,
Through the lace of winter bougainvillea,
A hawk is perched on the carcass of a fattened pigeon -
Pulling and clawing at its body,
Entrails hanging from its sharp beak.