The scent of warm redwood and pine
and golden light dripping between the branches
of a California forest afternoon
and you lean back in your chair
beer in hand,
and sigh contentedly with the trees.
There is no life like this
not like this
I step onto the patio
my bare feet dusty and stuck with sap
you smile, I thump forward
and ask about the barbecue
will there be ribs tonight?
Maybe this is a thing that happened
and maybe it never did
because it must have been a vacation
and I was a child
and you were a dead man
and the places we meet are as fleeting
as the shadow cast by a moving bough
in a California forest.