Crossing Dumbarton Bridge
At the summer’s end the blood-red algae
bloom in the brine of Cargill salt ponds.
The wild fennel yellows by the roadside;
ripe florets shiver with the swish of traffic.
Wind buffets me through my driver-side window—
jumbled stink of licorice and pond sludge.
The sun is a cathedral rose; shattered
and collapsing, she drops her petals on the hills.
The moon floats free from the ridge-line; its
disk of ashen powders glows like a mirror in sunset.
The landing lights of jetliners
attend its rising in the east.
On the three KGO antenna spikes
red warning lights pulse in and out of phase.
Gulls roost on the sagging power lines,
on the trellis bars of transmission towers.
A snowy egret, its beak a delicate antenna,
wades into the vibrating dusk.
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