Everywhere a pulse is beating:
in the straight trunk of the sequoia,
in the leafless oak,
in the sound of snow against digger pine.
A pulse: the madrone
with its smooth, pink flesh,
Orr Creek where downed redwood dangles roots,
the soil. Beating through things
and the names of things.
Black oak leaves caught in ice,
half-eaten body of the dead deer.
A pulse is beating through Round Valley,
Potter Valley, Anderson, Redwood, Long Valley.
And in winter water that moves the world in rivers
names here Garcia, Navarro, Big, Russian, Eel.
All the forks of all these rivers,
all the falls and creeks and streams.
A pulse. A deep drifting down.