I am trying to remember 
the smudge of hills that seemed
to tower over our town when it
was small, the trails where pony boys
led the animals before they were saddled
for hire, the red fringe of bottlebrush
that swept your forehead as you passed.
How have I come to be so unpinned
from the canopy, jettisoned like a stone
that now finds burrow in a sandy plain?
In the morning, I palm a handful
of coffee beans before I grind them.
Sometimes it is almost noon
when the fog finally lifts.

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