Our California
Poems from Contra Costa County
Snapshot of El Cerrito, California
By Maw Shein Win
On the ancestral home of the Ohlone people
Hummingbirds flicker above fuschia and salvia.
Patrons line up at the theater waiting
for Wonder Woman, twins wearing matching capes.
Secret trails lead to hidden sights.
Commuters with their backpacks, paper bags, green apples.
The baristas, therapists, musicians.
The engineers, teenagers, beekeepers.
The teachers, neighbors, dreamers.
Walking towards Del Norte BART.
Riding bikes along the Ohlone.
Always, the young man playing guitar as he strolls
down Richmond Street at dusk.
Garlic naan and momos from Tashi Delek.
Gorgonzola from Giovanni’s.
Pumpkin pancakes at Fatapple’s.
Late night fries at Nation’s.
Skunk, possum, wild turkey.
Deer down from little hill.
Mysterious metal ducks on telephone poles.
Creek running near Farmer’s Market.
Tiny libraries on street corners, lupine, and milkweed.
Flax-leaved paperbark trees paint blooms on parked cars.
City of homes, bungalows, and condos.
Light gleams off rooftops, incandescent gold, then deep red.
The Little Hill
By Evie Groch
In a fold in the hills of the
El Cerrito landscape lies my home.
A block east flows the mighty Arlington
Avenue, snaking, winding through from
Richmond to Berkeley, announcing
my city with a stop sign.
Along the avenue, the expansive
Golf Club missiles pockmark my car
with ping ponging golf balls
as I try to dodge them, avoid
the speed traps in the hidden foliage
lining the roadway.
Young joggers with attached water
bottles cede to the inclines breathless.
Bus stop waiters look at their watches,
convinced their frequent checking
will bring the conveyance sooner.
The views of the bay are frameable
features when fingers of fog
pull back like shriveling claws.
We merit two BART stations
and a plaza bearing our name.
Also claim a good portion of Tilden Park
where children were raised with pony rides,
carousels, a miniature train.
Blessed with natural food stores,
farmers markets, friendly folks
in the flats and rolling hills,
we honor the contours of our city.
We built our house here as young parents,
learning to adapt to the way of the hills,
their echoes, meandering wildlife
who lap water in our little stream,
scurry across our street in darkness,
raise a stink when surprised.
The fog still tucks me in its blanket
at night as I listen to the BART trains
rock me to sleep.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.