The Salinas Valley blooms and
fruits between two hills that bare it all. The hills stretch, bulge, and
swell, folding the valley in their flesh.
Needle beds draw dreams. Cracks urge. Flats beg the touch. Where the sole
meets the soil is where it happens. I detect a pulse
underneath—earthquake?—fresh growth?—an upside-down river?
First, bitter heat. Sea salt or my sweat, I can’t tell which, burns my
tongue. Stings my eyes. Tickles my flesh folds. Then, a cloud seeding makes
the slopes slides. Again and again, I fall. Even down, I whisper sweet
Cones crash from the tree tops, burned by the bitter breath. I lay my soles
well, praying with the feet. Deep in awe, I hug the throbbing hills.
Where the sole meets the soil is where I happen.