fog recedes the sky racing blue

where does the wind
come from my son asks

or where does it go

i tell him of hot rising air
and transparent domes

high pressure that soars

cold air from the sea
will speed past us for miles
to the orchards of sebastopol

from there swirl up

over the apples and grapes
and all the redwood trees
and all the pioneer burying grounds

it will know everything

the rocks and fields
solitary farms and hideouts
even lost pirate treasure

my son nods and we agree

thus strange magic associated
from whatever shimmers in the distance
and stray birds so knowledgeable


**

Bodega Bay
6.30.16