I see no shrouded silhouette or trace
Of solid might—thick haze conceals
The mountains of St. Gabriel again
As if they never were; all mist,
These memories of paths perfumed with sage
And broom, of hills where Our Lord’s candles rise
From dagger mounds and where the scrub jays screech–
Their flight like blue sparks flaring from the live oaks.
I know they stand. I’ve seen the winds dispel
These vapor veils. I’ve seen the storm-cleansed peak
To the north appear like a horizon moon—
Magnified, near—its snow veins white as light,
And the surrounding, gleaming skies
Deny acquaintance with the haze.
