
He drove while I directed
my phone to remember
the contrast of winter summits
against the flourish of mild-weather
fields, lavishly green as Irish
scenes portrayed in technicolor,
or waiting room magazines.
I kept shooting as we passed
signs of spring, which wet winters
sometimes bring to meadows
and hills that summer fire
fries, but now in this season,
sunny-side yellow profusely
blooms California-wild poppies.
Before the Sonora Desert,
and busy city oasis,
he impulsively pulled over
nearby a quaint, woolly scene,
for photographs, however,
the flock boldly baahed at us
and made me feel quite sheepish.
Written
on March 8, 2019