On this perfect September day
these California hills rise,
joyfully to pacific skies,

but from my high ground
I gaze across this sun-drunk city,
across that strip of shimmering bay
to distant, wild Marin hills
where a thin, white line
lingers among ancient redwoods.

I see it shroud them in white silence.
It obliterates even
the radiant, waning sun.

This is winter.

His cold fingers will soon reach
into our happy lives,

our bright denial.


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