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By Bob Stanley

for Tom Hoffman

Somewhere out between Acampo and Clements
there’s a long, tall stand of oaks – some interior lives and some valleys –
along the bluff where the dirt road above the Mokelumne
splits the levee.

When sunset splashes horizontal strokes of orange,
I see the silhouette - those oaks from your patio and remember
when we camped out there one summer and cooked two doves
over a wood fire, using little oak sticks to rotisserie the tiny birds,
birds we shot that afternoon tramping through corn stubble.

Grandma lived and died here, and her mother too, walking that trail
between the two houses, two barns, that generations of Hoffmans called home
where flickers and woodpeckers foraged and dug,
living their short lives above dry, mild, flat land.

It’s a place in California. 2 million, 14 million, now 40 million
people live here and that means the Interstates are full
of us -- people day and night, going where people go.

But not here. It’s still quiet here. You can hear a red-shouldered hawk
from far off, you can see sandhill cranes against white mist in the glare.
Though winter could change things and undercut levee walls, right now
there’s not much water in the river, at least not in the summer of fall
when the harnessed Moke winds muddy and thick in branch and bramble.

I’m not a quiet man and I don’t seek solitude or wild places that much,
but when I see that line of oaks stretching along the river that carries
the snowmelt to the meandering Delta, well, I watch the sun
take its slow time, and know I’m home, or at least on my way there.

Each Step Writes This Poem

By Jennifer Pickering

the river your pen, the slipstream your ink.
You are the poet of trumpeters in feathered tuxedos,
of cottonwood’s lacy shade, the hawk’s sharp perception
arc of wings, of willows dangling jade necklaces
in deep pools of history: Patwin gliding in Tule canoes netting the dance of the Chinook’s fiery iridescence
of hope lumped in the pockets of the 49ers and immigrants
hungry with ambition crowding steamboats from San Francisco come to build the railroads, till the fields, and raise the mirrored edifices, a sacrament of new beginnings, the Sacramento their elixir.

Sacramento River and Interstate 5

By Doreen Beyer

My Sacramento will always be about two rivers--

one that flows from the Klamath mountains
to San Francisco Bay,
the other from the Canadian border
to Mexico's. And back.

The first river carries with it the sky--
on those clear, still days when
surrounding foliage rolls with light
the pastoral transforms to the sacred.

The second river carries with it
hints of ozone and exhaust--
its rolling ribbon of asphalt echoes
with muscular hums

of semi-trailer trucks and cars
that move with substance
and purpose--
One river allows for the luxury

of refuge,
scent of earth,
moon showing her face--

the other a smoke-colored dance
of human-engineered systems
and forces--

One brings connection.
The other, brings me home.

Saturday Night on the River

By Laura Garfinkel

The four of us motor the pontoon past Old Sacramento,
under the Tower Bridge whose gold paint glistens
as the sun prepares to set. The Lights of the Delta King
and giant Ferris wheel decorate the shore in perpetual holiday.
A row of men, up to their knees in water, fish on the shore.
I wonder what it looks like to the fish underneath, all that bait,
like taffy from jars in the tourist shops nearby.
Free Samples. Temptation. I feel for those fish—
even as I pop a piece of Negi Hama Maki into my mouth.
Our host fishes from the back of the boat, one small striper
unhooked, thrown back; almost immediately snatched
by a Canada Goose who flies a victory circle around our boat.
As party boats speed by, water droplets splash our faces.
This is a multi-use community, an ecosystem
of creatures, some better behaved than others.
Twelve ducklings swim in formation, adults at either end
mind the group like diligent chaperones on a school field trip.
Sea lions sleep on the pier, others dive and bob in the water
like happy-go-lucky children. We like to believe they are smiling.
How do they navigate the boats, find free space to surface?
In the Bay area twelve whales washed up from boat strikes,
entanglement, and malnutrition. We pass tent encampments
on the bluff. Once gold was discovered here. People rushed
the banks to pan for riches. This river has always provided.
It has been a source of beauty and life to all living beings
who dip in and out of its generous waters, or make lives
on its expansive shores. It connects the ocean to the mountains;
the present to past history, as it flows into an uncertain future.

A Summer Day in California

By Farida Corkery-Smith

As if to beat the early morning sun
A symphony of rooster crows and heavy traffic noise
Awakens me and I feel the delta breeze
Through opened windows sweeping in a blast of sharp cold air…
A subtle sign to put my bootie slippers on
I clear my windshield from glistening beads of dew
Go for a nourishing protein and hot espresso run
Inch back through lines of steady morning rush
Hoping to spend some time toiling in nature’s grace…
And I note my coffee quickly turning into cold brew
My tender seedlings wait to finally dine
On beds of nutrients I hasten to prepare
As noon is drawing close, in beads of sweat and dirt
Resembling the looks of a weather-beaten drifter…
I soon give up, deciding a cold salad will do just fine
I pray for a mildly sultry afternoon
Rid my garden of lush invasive growths
Put production back to the task, only to hand over
A colorful vocabulary of frustrations…
To the whims of California summer that now is turning soon
Into a hot and crushingly torrid day
That, like a swarm of ants, blithely marches on:
A smothering shroud of radiating needle points
We languish under its pressure with no option…
But cave in to the relentless attacks of ultraviolet rays
On a thirsty earth… in quiet defeat
Rivaling a cowering coyote hiding under
The shadows of sparsely spaced clouds, exhausted
Awaiting acceptance of the unescapable…
And praying for salvation from the ever stifling heat
Save for a dog’s baying in the distance
Calling for a truce to end this torturous day
However not succeeding and submitting to surrender
As twilight finally rises in waves of soft auroral glows…
Hope reappears, patiently waiting for deliverance
And in the company of the rising Delta breeze
Anxiety and fatigue is rapidly replaced
In the coolness of the night, by blissful gratitude
And happiness, and at morning’s dawn…
I wake and pull my blanket up, lest I will freeze

Swift Current

By Jeanine Stevens

From the abundant snowmelt, let
the American River soak up all it can hold,
then carry its icy blueness
from the summit past Twin Bridges
down through gold country’s autumn brilliance.

Let the rafters on the South Fork safely maneuver
around swirling Old Man Trouble Rapids,
then relax on the quiet of Lake Folsom.

From the deck at the Cliff House,
let diner’s enjoy the soft ripples
that tenderly bounce red and yellow canoes.

Past the spillway at Nimbus Dam, let fish ladders
be gentle as spawning salmon return home,
catapult bodies up cement walls.

At a narrow bend, keep this a safe place
for the green heron and white egret,
so they may thrive and reproduce.
Let the current be swift so poachers cannot cross
to the small island and steal precious eggs.

Here by a lush creek, let the river rest for a moment
in honor of the first people who tanned hides
along the bank. Smell the aroma of acorn mush
bubbling over boiling stones?
Deer meat and manzanita berry tea shared.

Standing on the old iron bridge, we look upstream
as the setting sun creates diamond facets
in wild riffles, jewels in the sun,
the only gems we need, so blinding
we must wear dark glasses.
We finger our plain gold wedding bands
that have served for 35 years.