On
early March mornings, as tule fogbegins to lift in California’s Central Valley,
winter’s skeletons transform into trees
and a blush of almond blossoms
carpet orchard floors.
Most every morning, I’d walk through
the dappled light of the alabaster canopy
until I reached the canal, where I’d sit,
adjust my headphones, and lean back
against the scaly bark of my familiar tree
Getting high on the scent of almond blossoms,
nature’s perfume, while Miles’ sweet-cream
trumpet played Gershwin’s “Summertime”
when the livin’ was easy
when the trees were still young
Before
the scent of burnt almond
permeated
the autumn sky—before the Valley nodded off
for another winter, when the trees—
and I—were still young.
text & photo by leh
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