Poem (Los Angeles)

I am watching the Santa Ana winds brush against the Valencia tree outside, causing it to sway back and forth as if it has tapped into some ancient and fierce rhythm.

A simmering cadence, only bestowed upon familiar and knowing lovers.

I find comfort in this, comfort in the beating rush of history.

I speak of the grains of earth here,
as if I know each one by name and reputation. As if I have walked hand in hand with the Tongva and the Tataviam.
Tasting the soil and counting the steps to the water, where Chumash canoes bobbed on the blanket of a blue Pacific
until a Spaniard, pointed his finger and said:

Here!