By Joseph Milosch
There are places where the bark, dirt, heat, the sky, stones, bugs exist for generations, where you come to rest, to enjoy the view, the breeze. Moving a stick through dead leaves you find remnants of a campsite, a holy site, or work site. One place is the surface point of Chiquita Springs.
Leaves layered a rock
on the bank of a creek.
The field behind it has grass, plants,
birds nesting in the brush.
That rock rests
in the middle
of an oaks grove
surrounding a spring,
and it hangs over
the south bank.
On its east and west corners
are two bowls
formed by women
who ground acorns.
Disturb the dampness under the leaves
in these bowls,
and the scent of working women
will surface to ride
the breeze.
I like to sit between the bowls
on a patch, a rectangle etched
in stone by the leaching of acorns.
This site conjures up
a time when a ray of light
coming through the oaks
was a burnish bone,
a hieroglyph of the sun,
a spiked circle with one
long barb extending to the ground.
When I think of that place,
I remember water in the creek
holding a disc of sunlight.
A salamander turned gold
swimming through it.
I slipped my hand under it.
Saw my fingers yellow,
my face broken by waves.
I saw myself
in the metallic glitter
of my eyes,
as a wing-tipped wind
stirred leaves
into noise.