Ode to Leona Canyon

I leave my apartment and cross the street 
where wild turkeys flaunt a purplish-black sheen, 
in a canyon where coyotes can tease off-leash dogs to their oblivion—
former habitat of the Jalquin/Irquin tribe, members of the Ohlone,
once a resort in the Oakland hills where hotel sheets stretched
to dry between redwoods, and men mined a yellow gold, sulfur—
a place surrounded by buckeye trees that light the sky in spring
with candelabras of white blossoms where I have watched sword ferns 
duel with horsetails for seniority and lose every time, places
where I have paused to converse with a bay that bends its leaves
across the stream to caress the top of my head, all-knowing;
dog-walkers and their flocks stop along the trail to swap stories 
where oaks undulate as if trying to run away from hills that mold them—
Leona Canyon, through every season I have watched you change,
how eucalyptus leaves swirl and create a numbered crunching of years, 
the way song sparrows balance on dried stalks of anise, and
how your creek fills with water in winter like a surprised young girl‘s laughter—
but today there are no cars in the parking lot, Northern California’s in flames, 
I imagine there’s no need to observe proper mask etiquette, climb
to the first, second, and finally reach the third wooden bench, sit 
and pray to any god that will listen.