Beyond those steel-blue western hills...
California
We huddle round the mesquite fire.
We old Isseis at sunrise,
In black coats,
Gazing...
Home.
Dreaming at sunrise, our eyes are big.
Why do our eyes become full?
Do memories make eyes full?
Does deep longing do this to eyes?
Only the western hill we see--no others.
Only the western hills have a glory,
A glory wet and brimming.
Though their cold, steel blue shoulders blur as we gaze,
Only the western hills ahve magic.
Home.