dreaming in the shadows of the Sleeping Maiden

Mt. Tam glimpsed in the rays of morning sun

Past dawn, the sun snares the mountain in gold dust. Had I not taken this picture, I would have thought his was a dream at winter’s edge.

Green Hills

by Kay Ryan

Their green flanks
and swells
are not flesh in any sense
matching ours,
we tell ourselves.
Nor their green
breast nor their
green shoulder nor
the language of their rolling over.

-from The Place That Inhabits Us, an anthology of poems of the San Francisco Bay Watershed, published by Sixteen Rivers Press