Landing

the rich rainbow of humanity spilling from In-N-Out

iconic rust red span fading into cloud

rattle and shredding bark of eucalyptus

seafoam so white it radiates light

headlands scented like moors

pelicans flying in brackets

everything muted, slowed down by fog’s clammy breath

round amethyst and emerald orbs weighing down

vines trained to neat, orderly rows

the twisting road and trim fields and brown hills recalling Tuscany

oaks sculpting a cool, dappled tunnel to wend through

now into the mossy, musty

dark|solid|linear redwoods -

echoing a nave’s columns,

throwing shafts of filtered sun like the Holy Ghost

and then

the coast:

you hit it

reel even more

chide yourself to think of the road, the traffic,

steal glances anyway,

like your first-crush suckerpunch looks,

undeniable although you know they’ll leave you doubled over

But you’d probably do the same

in my state.

So many stunning ways to live,

but only one little go around allowed.

And only one way to go about it right:

to be bowled over

wherever you land.