California Ode

Somewhere ravens, or are they crows, say, “Ha ha,”

not the British ditch with fence, famous

to Scrabblers, but a small horn’s notes, terse

and hoarse. A sheep’s bleat, a handsaw,

the finches’ high-pitched chitter

in the blighted apple tree, its stalled

tart fruit, red-bottomed, inch-wide, already timed

out: it all makes a music, animal,

vegetal, human. One white morning glory

solos in the swath of optimist

dandelions—nothing haunts

or hunts them, their dazzle-yellow boasts:

Hello, hello, we’re hiding’s counterpoise.

They border the moles’

two beige mounds and a hole.

Wild hemlock’s parsley-look

also emblems the book of “seem,”

while the ground-dwelling flower

with arrowhead leaves—no memorial

to the native tribes, Wiyots here

or Ishi’s people further south—lures a bee,

a troth if not a promise:

the flower, ale gold and blowsy,

has drunk beauty’s beer.

Our only fence is the raven’s ha and ha:

air’s vowels, an LOL, or

bravado’s call?

It’s what Yahweh boasts

his battle horses say

in the Englished book of  Job.

The ravens circle and call.

Even earth can seesaw

when the fault slides right.

It’s raven heaven here.