Compass 13
Is behind me, is wet, is receding. Sagebrush, short grass, running up to alfalfa, irrigated fields barely fending off the inevitable. Is ahead of me, is wet, is approaching. Potato fields, asparagus, rows upon rows of grape vines, freshly cut hay, winnowed, drying out.
Compass 14
A stout ponderosa pine grows taller and older than the hotel on whose grounds it stands. His shadow fuses pen and hand and chair into one. The pines barely sway; the cottonwood rocks, leaves writhing. As the setting sun blinds the lawn glows.
Compass 15
Mt. Shasta broods, sucking clouds into its peaks. Two small fruit trees shade two warping picnic tables. To the south, below the ridge, unseen traffic on I-5 hums and rattles. Sunset, dark Siskiyous, darkening clouds, soak up the sun.
Compass 16
Remains of a barn collapsed inward, boards gray as the soil. A row of eucalyptus trees scent the air thirty yards away. They’re building a video stage where the pool once stood, white primer drying on the cyclorama. His house, he the sole occupant, for thirty years, needs painting, siding more mold than paint.
Compass 17
He doesn’t know the truth, sun’s straight up. He doesn’t know the beast where the sun grows. He doesn’t know the mouth, moist, warm, no flowers leaning, filling. He doesn’t know the test where the sun’s question is answered.
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