Odyssey

The sun hides behind bright grey fog,

hovering low above the receding tide

and it's not raining but the air is wet.

Cataracts of cigarette smoke and lack of sleep,

warm breath expelled into the Pacific morning,

steam escaping from double-walled tumblers.

The levy path is littered with bodies,

the streets with wandering sand,

and I have to remind myself that this is home.

Not even the wet currents rushing in

compare to how quickly I rush out,

leaving Santa Cruz behind for Sierra Azul.

The bus out of town, up the hill, down into the valley,

picks me up every morning at 7:30

to carry me away.

We pick up cyclists who sit beside their helmets,

bag ladies who sneer at sleeping students,

demanding that they "stop it".

Forty-somethings type up charts,

twenty-somethings crack their knuckles,

and I look out the window.

We leave a wake of exhaust to float above the pavement

as we get pulled away from sea level

to waltz with the mountain roads once more.

When I drive highway 17 myself

I always light up a cigarette at the summit,

a rare stretch of flat, straight road.

Now the clearing atop the hill

is accompanied by a no smoking sign

and a woman's voice reciting "Now passing - The Summit".

The road finally starts to wind down

and I begin my descent towards

home.

But home keeps passing by.

I see Summit Road, but I can't drive onto Mountain Charlie.

Just a mile down and I could be on Old Santa Cruz Highway.

I know Holy City is in there,

but have I passed it yet?

Are daffodils still blooming by my grove?

It would be lovely to drive on Old Santa Cruz today,

the rising sun hitting the redwood canopy,

shadows like lace on the grayed road.

Flora and fauna and fawns and ferns

and not even the radio can drown out

the rustle of woven branches connecting.

The wind whistles and pine needles wander

to the red forest floor and it's a wonder

this was called the blue range, Sierra Azul.

But it's just hydraulics and brakes

and the grunts of passengers

trying to not slide out of their seats.

By the time we reach down to the belly of the fog,

the valley lies sprawling before us

and there's a layer of smog.

Redwoods are replaced by Oaks,

except for the edges of Lexington

where Eucalyptus drip their boughs,

their bark peeling away from themselves

like stale wallpaper clinging to old walls

for so long, but gliding away so easily

in the end.