Foothills

My thoughts sometimes, revisit the past,

A major hazard of living alone.

I live on the cusp of beauty,

Yet my mind finds its way back home. 

So many head for the mountains
Just to share the foothill view…

Not knowing they were looking upon

Rich histories they never knew.

Green winters and brown summers,

It was always a beautiful land;

To those escaping the city,

And finding gold with an old tin pan.

Do bullfrogs still serenade at night

Along with crickets under the stars?

I wonder if tarantulas cross the road,

Intimidating the passing cars?

Do children still walk the riverbanks

To try out their fishing poles?

Do camera buffs  on carved rocks know,

They stand on Miwok grinding holes?

I wonder if you still chase trucks,

Wildflowers in your hand to give;

Confessing your love forever,

To the drivers, wherever they live?