It happens when I've been driving
for hours on two-lane roads winding
past orchards just after they've bloomed.
When I ask myself where I was when all
this burst like the bounty of heaven, no
answer comes back from the earth or heaven.
A hint of rain is in the air and the sky
broods above a sudden stand of oak that
rushes by. Between the trees coming
into the new green of their leaves light
breaks for a second and within the light a path
opens through the trees and the fields beyond.
Beyond, unseen, an ancient river runs
high in its banks bringing the Sierras' gift
back down to earth. The moment is so full
I have to close my eyes and slow the car.
Should I go back the long, abandoned roads
that lead me to this place and this moment
to find why I've become who I am
and why that could matter. Slowly now
I pass through a small town of scrubbed houses,
wide lawns, and empty streets. A rain has passed
leaving little pools reflecting the sky
that stares open-eyed at its own image.
If this were Sunday the bells would ring,
if this were sixty years ago I
would be a boy on foot no farther
than I am now with my eyes filled
with so much seeing. I caught a glimpse,
a road through the trees, a door
that opened a moment only to close.
Twelve miles from Stockton. I could go west
until I reached the sea or keep going
farther and farther into this valley
past the truck stops and the ruined towns
while the afternoon closes down around me.
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