Amber in the Gloaming

There was amber in the gloaming.
A vein of gold ascending through the sentinels who kept uneasy watch along the lines.
The needles danced in grooves and ridges, records of the trembles moving through the crest of pines.
Red coruscating river on the spine.

A phantom orange kaleidoscope of monarch butterflies,
a field of glowing marigolds suspended in the skies
rose from the hills of chaparral and sage and manzanita.
And they rained down on Altadena.

The wind is not a whisper.
It’s the keening howl of terror-stricken angels with one hundred eyes and many-thousand wings.
It hurtled through the sanctuary, flung the doors clear off the church
where still I long to sing.
The breath of wrath devouring everything.

When I close my eyes I am still floating in the blue.
The breeze is soft upon my skin. I smell the grassy dew.
And promises of springtime linger in the air anew.

Now the gardens all lay fallow.
The lemon trees with bony limbs reach skyward, grasping for the fruit to quench an endless thirst.
In canyons deep the blackened scars erase the favorite footpaths
that my friends and I traversed.
How paradise becomes a place accursed.

I cry in hope and mourning to the masters of the spheres.
Oh Thunder-Bird, please seed the budding storm clouds with our tears
above those hills of chaparral and sage and manzanita.
Let them rain down on Altadena.