‍

Says the feathery tongue of flame  

                        as the golden drooze of sap sizzles,

pours down the sister oaks;    

                        beauty’s slippage

                       down the arched boughs,

                       downward and again,

upward,   a god-like awakening,   a-Daphne- stepping- into;

and   hiss hiss   following hiss

like the native snakes of California   of the beatific  golden West;

            oh how they want to slither

                        back to the land’s immeasurable inferno; if not,

they know to strike out at every heft

           of pick or shovel…  

Imagine whole pastures covered

with their Sssss-sss;    

                       and not one vulture   flings

                       his open wings

to claim them…

‍