Driving past farms, factories, malls and malls,
stuccoed houses nursing at the mother hubs of subdivisions I hear stories from Cairo
where no one I know is from.
Nile and Okavango, names of deltas sister to this Sacramento-San Joaquin drift by on the windscreen of my mind as the car shudders across bridges.
I love these waters that I’ve paddled and rowed, from which I’ve eaten salmon snagged as they swam through brackish water to sweet where
the fish then peel and flake like a person burnt by the sun, the animals’ life work done.
On the highway each driver stays in her lane marked by dashes of white, parallel lines channeling us across the earth whose news is as beautiful and sad as the city of Sacramento rising ahead
from the flat valley of unidentified desires.