September 3, 1977 (I was 32)
Sunol
Some might say I’m living an escape.
They speak of a hideout in the woods
for a part time recluse.
To them, it is an amusement
quite romantic, naively idyllic,
a place of dreams in which to dream.
They intimate psychological retreat,
these worldly heroes who leave the room
to avoid a spider, who contract poison oak
thinking about trees, but this place is real.
The deer are feeding in the hills
the turkey vulture circles overhead
the raccoons come to the porch
the possums hang from the oaks
the snakes hide under rocks
tarantulas march across the road in September
The actuality of the place cannot be denied
It has not been created in search of ignorance
It creates itself in the image of its own truth
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