April, 1973
I
don't know. One morning, early,
I
drove alone
up
the winding mountain highway, out of town.
Drove
beyond the
the
open-air fruit stand with
its
jars of yellow, gold,
red-gold
and nearly-black
honey—
past
yucca and ponderosa, till I got out and walked
the
dusty, diminishing switchbacks
to
the fire-watch,
where
I climbed a flimsy ladder
into
the lookout.
My
best friend's aunt, an older woman stricken
with
hilarity,
manned
this station all summer long.
I
imagined her staring, all summer long,
from
its small, empty room.
From
its gigantic
silence,
really. Imagined her watching
for
spot-fires, there, and there. . .
all
down the dry, bluish hills
to
the valley.
And
I could see, through an open window here,
black
bees drifting up
from
the valley, on the wind.
Circling,
they made a faint little noise,
fluid
and dry.
Then
I saw one light
on
a cow skull nailed to the railings.
It
crawled all over
that
chunk of bone, every inch of that clean
face— then slipped, like this,
right through the eye.
I
tripped my way down
fast. Slept the rest of that day
and
all that night, even a bit
of
the next day too.
And
then I woke.