Call and Response: DayTo be Determined: Five

on the long straight
highway featureless
except for beauty
pale hills waiting for
rain and strange green
winter here is an orchard
there a creek dry
water sent to quench lawns
turning green in the desert
we move erratically
now flying then halting
behind trucks carrying secrets
or green apples
we aim South then East
feeling our way in familiar
directions as if blind

Call And Response: Day 47: Five

we drive East through the Central Valley
the hills undifferentiated save for beauty's
pale gold waiting for the first rains
of our green winter orchards
waiting for bulldozers to push
frail blossoms into lots for houses
no one wants to buy
moving South and East as fast as wings
then slow behind trucks carrying
fruit or secrets we could share
before we cross the Rio Grande

Call and Response: 47: Making Neighbors

Hearts on sleeves here

all over town

nods of confidence

for the President and

invitations to sit down

together for tea.

Slow down and look at

your neighbor.

Let them

move ahead

in front of you.

Call and Response: 46: Stream

Before snow what comes

down the mountain is clear

path marking stream

loping a right turn then

rocks reveal clean faces

smooth curved palm fits

We remember shiver

Call and Response: Day 46: Quick Light

the air clear and cool
as if remembering rain
drifts like sparkling water
toward the flower stand
roses and Gerberas
beside tulips and daisies
and gently embraces
the hope of snow

Call and Response: 45: Alley Parking

If you took my first name and translated it

you would find me dancing flamenco

through a warm night in tiny tap shoes

wooing a wicked drink downtown with friends

with an extra pair of more practical flats

on the seat in the cab of the turquoise Ford pickup in the alley, idling

Lotta car, lady, the boys would whimper

and scold after me, small woman on a mission

Call and Response: Day 45: Heat And Fog

liquid amber leaves
turn and fall in gold and red
the street is hot
it doesn't steam but
beads of sweat on my face
sign tropics or desert
as we drive home
I look and see wisps
of fog rolling slowly
from the bay