27 August 2009. Mild California morning sun, even the driver of immense 7-up truck (pulled in just across the street) relaxed, texting away, high up in his cab...
The driveway in Oceanside, Fowles Street, ten years past. These same mornings. San Diego light, soft and filtered, raking the jacaranda. No one there but me. My father's garden, below, in the canyon. His trees a kind of testament-- avocado, fuerte and hass, the meyer lemon and bartlett pear... All the names. Wearing his old shorts, tied with a rope, the worn short-sleeved shirt (Walters Mens Wear) and a towell over his shoulder. The monarch butterfly appears--hovering--and he holds up a finger as improvised landing spot, all the time with eyes on their shadows on the ground... A kind of knowledge, material and irreplaceable...
As with Atilio Reynoso--his estilo viejo, from the plains of Argentina...
Sureño...
* * *
(Sureño--of the southland...)
No comments:
Post a Comment