Poem #3

I don't know the name of the mountain range

That I look at every day

On my run around the reservoir

I only know how high it seems

Threatening to crush the valley below

And how wide it stretches

Past the field of peripheral vision

And the shark blue tint of its winter peaks

As opposed to the other California season

And the roundness of the stratus clouds

That collapse over the leeward side

Like down from a torn pillow

Coming to rest on the heads

Of the cottonwoods, holding hands

And the breath it pumps into my lungs

And the shimmering reflection that dances

Over the murky cement pool

That gives shape to my journey

But not the name