It was a long way to travel
for a mouthful of food.
In truth, it’s never the point
merely an excuse
to depart from suburban life,
to witness wildness,
to maybe find dinner,
The white noise of the Pacific my compass,
the chafe and thrum of tree boughs
strings of a massive guitar.
Wind whooshes the tops of gargantuan conifer
cloaking crows with Joplin’s pipes;
woodpeckers drumming manically,
their red mohawks keeping time,
Buddy Rich on bugs.
Music of the forest
every bit as transportive
as Chopin, B.B., Baker.
Initial panic at being alone in the woods
gives way to fear of getting lost
gaining either enlightenment or going deeper
in my weeds,
wandering permanently off path.
Thick spider’s webs
catch on eyelashes and lace hair
provoking squeals and shudders,
but their weavers scare me less than
bears and good ol’ boys.
Diminutive holes in the earth
dug by foragers who arrived early
foregoing breakfast to feast at dinner.
The smell of old burgundy
rises from the duff
where I shuffle and scrape and pat
in search of the waking porcini,
its wonderfully phallic top
just poking out
from a heavy blanket of pine needles.
We’ve been sold a bill of goods
hoodwinked to get more
pushed to get ahead.
I want to be
need to be
for my own truth.
It’s so easy to get turned around
the original path confused
and all the Bishop pines
look the same.
#california #jenner #mushrooms (at Jenner, California)