Tule Elk—Pt Reyes Nat’l Seashore

Time is slow here, and while I was late in arriving
I had no idea how late, nor knew what I missed.

This land is from another realm altogether,
the abyssal depths—thick layers of ocean sediment
and low grade metamorphics make up the bulk
of California’s coast and central valley.
Point Reyes continues to move north on hidden mechanics.

A menagerie punished in all directions,
uplifted and faulted, punctuated by volcanism
that began in Napa extending north to Alaska.
My favorite winery benefits from the alkaline soils
of an extinct volcano.

For millennia the bays around here were settled
by the Pomo, later adding Russian fishing outposts.
Then Monroe’s doctrine ran through a vast continent,
this is the western shore, yet it took me but a day
to travel the centuries over the same distance—
I took the abbreviated course.

These elk, I expect, are relics of an ice age,
yet here they are on a bare rocky headland,
lashed by warm winds that can flatten timber.
Survivors.

You belong to no one.
There’s no one at your heels.
No flags.
No uniforms.
No armies.

In the day’s silence you watched me as if to say:
“You know nothing but we cannot teach you.
Simply, this Ark set sail without a ruler, pray do not
look for one.”

The whole time without a word carrying
a voice on the wind.

Stephen Cipot
Garden City Park