Greeley Hill, California

There's a piece of land up near where the Sierra Nevadas rise from farmland patchwork seamed with canals and fenceposts. In the valleys the farmers want to sell their water instead of watering with it this year, it makes cents they say, as if the water running beneath the land were theirs to sell. It reminds me of concert and sports ticket scalpers asking for a good sound beating, ruining the essence by ruining the audience and the people's trust in other people. I think Arizona might take a bid on the water or perhaps Nevada would be happy to, now comfortably quadrupling their carrying capacity.

This land is above the thirsty plains, filled with white and doug fir, live oak and ponderosa pine. It was in the family that I've now become a part of. I think of it often; what I'd do first in maintaining it, tending to the himalayan blackberries along the fenceline and ivy at a giant's base. I think of it when the first hour elapses in traffic cos the Bay Bridge's construction continues its plight beyond three years and continues daily bottlenecks of five to three lanes, backing up for miles. I think of commerce and economy and financial security... and then I think of running.

But I imagine too much and it becomes difficult to evaluate my most sincere reactions to the elaborate fantasies I inhabit. Would the quiet become deafening? Would my thumb turn green if I read enough, tried enough... would I try enough? And when the creek dries up in the summertime, could I find water like Cal in East of Eden following the footsteps of his wife in the drought, up the still slippery moss of a giant boulder (one of the best books I've ever read)? Steinbeck always developed that sacred space for his character, a place for respite and refuel and sometimes, for sacrifice. And it's that fear that drives us for freedom and yet, warns us of the way.

I think of the porch and a number of nice places to sit. A cribbage board and bottle of wine, make that two bottles of wine. I imagine something that's not, and perhaps something I don't even want, couldn't handle. Like the southern songs of men being driven crazy by the call of the whippoorwill. But the idea is still there and I do my best to welcome it. One day my hands will have calluses again and maybe my beard will grow in finally. I'll have smooth red lines on my shoulders when I take off my suspenders at night (ha!) and dirt under my nails that'll never come out.