I have returned
to the wild quiet.
Land of mini gullies
engraved by early winter
rain on mountain sand,
exposing the ancient granite
beneath.
Where confident oaks confer
in twilight whispers,
serious and unperturbed
in their woody business.
Where my pupils remember
their feral night vision,
seeing clearly
in the dark.
Here, the friction
of ten thousand wings
silences the iron din.
A cloud of tiny strings
transports and enrobes me,
and the lone bushtit
follows ahead.
Here, a slithering
in the arid brush beckons
like the smoldering dusk.
The sycamore stands
with his full chest,
curious yet wary,
shrewd sentinel
and speechwriter.
And sage, toyon and manzanita
exhale
their fragrant breath.
Here,
I belong.
© S. Rinderle, Samhain 2025
