Saturday, August 6, 2011

You and I may well say, we have a healthy respect for Tasmania

And so we do - acknowledging,
at any moment, it could strike

It's the same poussineque assumption, et in arcadia ego, we all have of the gentlest filly in the Stanford stables, as we take her out to stretch her legs in the rolling reaches of the ranch, until a whiff of her chum from Woodside catches her, and off we go. There we are again, protocol in a cocked hat: who speaks first, the rider of which gen-der, the rider of which interloper? This could go on, too, in a cataract of Locust Valley lockjaw, but for the easement of the live oaks, the burnt earth, and the madrone proliferating to reciprocate the tang for us of eucalyptus, over undertones of salt and sage. Between a bay and an ocean, what name?


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