The rain is mingling with light from the streetlamp
and light from my window
into the long animal grass.
I know you cannot see these lights.
I have put ten miles between us
and the creeks, trees and hills.
An entire world of separation.
What will become of me?
The night is useless,
cold, and you are somewhere in the dark,
in Santa Barbara, dreaming.
The moon was rising out of Ojai
when I left you and drove home.
All the birds
in El Estero were asleep.
The moon is shining on the Channel now,
and maybe shining on Fort Ross,
the Russian cupolas and crosses
flashing signals from the cliffs.
A far and lonely place
where the road
makes love to gravity, clinging high
above the rocks and pounding surf.
My heart is dizzy like that road tonight.
Narrow, slick and dangerous.
I think of you
then watch the sky until my breath returns.
I walk the dog over the tracks
and down to the bluffs, into a shroud
of eucalyptus trees that watch
the sea in anguish as it rises and falls.
The sea does not care about me.
I love you but the sea does not care.
I need you but the sea is just rising and falling,
so I will light a fire on the edge, and wait.
California, a little dog, and a girl.
Signal Fires by J. Kyle Kimberlin is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.