Our California
Poems from Stanislaus County
Yellow-Billed Magpies, Central Valley Gold
By Cleo Griffith
No other birds stand on the wires, but the magpies are replete,
above the road their gathering a joy of avian black and white and gold,
near orchards, farms, canals, their small homeland here complete.
This one long valley the only place where they will meet,
these golden-billed, smartly-marked with blue on wings, along the fold,
unlike any other birds, gregarious magpies are replete
near walnut trees, near ground crops spread colorful and indiscreet
in wide display the harvests, the churned-up ground and bold
insects, through orchards too, their homeland thus complete
with foods that satisfy the closely-nesting pairs, as neat
as apartment dwellers, they build their domes, as though they’re told
by other birds who stood on trees, these magpies all replete.
They are revived from trials that nearly made them obsolete,
now rule their California valley with the cockiness of old,
in orchards, farms, canals, all this land thus theirs, complete.
Revived in beauty, nature’s balance here can look so sweet,
as overhead on wires, the flock to ancestors uphold
with broad-winged flight, they claim the day, for the magpies are replete,
near orchards, farms, canals, their small homeland here complete.
To Vernal Falls
By Nancy Haskett
This trail is a siren.
She calls to us in our tent cabin,
lures us to Happy Isles again and again,
a temptress
who knows we can’t resist the challenge,
knows the effort is too addictive.
This trail is a trickster.
Her smooth, hard-packed surface feels deceptively easy at first,
as she hides her steep climbs,
waits until we’ve gone too far to turn back,
then rises sharply,
dares us to keep going, taunts us as our hearts race,
our lungs fill with thin mountain air.
This trail is an old friend.
Our feet know her bends and curves,
ascents and descents,
rough-hewn granite steps,
where to stop to catch our breath,
where to stop to catch a glimpse
of Yosemite Falls, Illilouette Falls,
where to sit on the granite wall,
where to stand on the wooden bridge.
This trail is a benefactress.
She refreshes us with a fine, delicate mist
on slick, steep cliffs,
serenades us with roar
of whitewater churning,
tumbling over boulders,
falling behind a rainbow
in sparkling white thunder.
Driving the Backroads
By Linda Marie Prather
Oh, the way the clouds look in February
in the Central Valley—
scalloped and child-sculpted,
billowy, and rain-filled.
And what snowing in the orchards
has come to mean—
miles of white blossom, pink-tinged
and full of bees.
I don’t think I’ll ever get over the sight of it—
immense and dream-like.
Mirrors of water beside the rows,
the rows…
Oh, to get lost in them!
In my California
By Lynn Hansen
when the egg of the sun
breaks on the edge of a spring horizon
almond blossoms release their seasonal snow
vernal pools bloom floral rings in colors of Joseph's coat
sand hill cranes dance with their mates on bare earth
mocking birds sing their repertoire into the night
warm summer mornings begin baking by noon
fragrance of warm wet humus drifts from irrigated land
California sunflowers turn gangly heads to follow the sun
perfume of Faye Alberta and Sun Crest peaches saturate the air
farmers market stalls blush red with vine-ripened tomatoes
cricket sounds bring evening reverie along the Tuolumne River
shorter fall daylight fosters crisp morning air with a hint of frost
overhead a chorus of honking echoes from a chevron of geese
pumpkins and lantern-like persimmons glow orange
Northern flickers arrive, sound their bugle call
murmuration of starlings alight in city trees for the night
dust of harvest season hangs over Modesto
in winter sunset, evening sky fades into mauve
holiday lights glitter from neighborhood homes
golden globes of citrus dangle from evergreen trees
a long night's moon shines bright over fields at rest
fingers of tule fog creep over landscape skin,
storm music, patter of rain on rooftops, windchimes singing