Across the Santa Barbara Channel
twenty million people awaken,
while here on the island eucalyptus trees
crackle in dry Santa Anna winds.
Los Angeles glows on the horizon,
at dawn dolphins float on the sea,
red warning lights flash
from offshore oil platforms.
The island is an ancient cetacean,
volcanic humps rising from ocean.
Whales’ warnings echo below the surface,
pelicans dive for fish that dolphins leave behind.
I hike grassy ridges to Smuggler’s Cove,
coreopsis blooms everywhere,
painted lady butterflies ride the wind.
At a trail junction an abandoned oil rig
rusts next to an orange tree—
no oil left on this island now,
only golden eagles, pelicans and butterflies.
I’m alone with scent of sea and oranges.
California has five years of water,
and two decades of oil if we’re lucky,
every year more fires rage—
I imagine Los Angeles abandoned,
wild again like this island—
but who wants solitude at that price?
Santa Anna winds blow hotter,
I lie on warm volcanic stone and nap a while.
—
George Longenecker lives in Pennsylvania with his wife and muse, Cynthia Martin, and their dog Aiko. His book Star Route was published by Main Street Rag; his poems and short stories have been published in Evening Street Review, Main Street Rag, The Mountain Troubadour and Asimov’s Science Fiction. He looks for irony and paradox in the interactions between humans and the natural world.
