We have run, not walked
up the talus slope to the new century.
The air, razor thin is freshly borne
on a keen wind.
It gusts and pulls at our hats and clothes
as we crest the ridgeline.
Let's stop awhile,
sit on this sun-warmed granite boulder
and look around.
From here, we can clearly see
the days behind.
Away before us,
there stretches the entire future,
mountain upon mountain,
until they turn purple, then faint blue.
Each ridgetop holds a view,
each a sun-warmed boulder.
But only a few people
will ever reach this one
where we now sit.
Ane when all who have sat here
have gotten up and departed,
no one will ever be able
to travel here again.

In One Thousand Years

On this moonless night
an odd wind moves
the dry sycamore leaves
in a hush and a stir.
Though I cannot see it,
the pavement beneath my feet
is solid and real.

In a thousand January nights
when we have all been gone
far longer than we have ever lived -
our footprints long blown away -
who then will know of us?
What name will this land bear?

We, ourselves, do not know
even the names of the fleeing merchants
and clerks of Pompei, the babysitter
who died cradling the infant in her care.
A thousand January nights ago,
here on a wild shore of what would be
California,
what man, what woman
stood listening to Sycamore leaves
tangling in a sudden west wind?