The languid splendor
of the Salinas Valley
opens itself up,
spreading wide
before the steering wheel—
unfurling in hot, golden glory.

We speed out of central Paso,
heat glossed thick
across the two-lane blacktop.
Winding deeper into wine country,
amber hills cradle
sun-warmed grapevines in rolling rows,
bursting expectant
of the gentle harvest.

Rusted iron signs
hang from leaning posts,
marking red dirt driveways as
Shooting Star Ranch,
Kokopelli Vineyards.

Powerful young horses,
all sleek manes
and glossy coats
kick up marigold dust.

Black calves shade themselves
neath the aged scrub.

A dusty tractor,
the shade of bluebirds,
blends into the sky.

First the fan palms
roll on by,
then give way
to tunnels of dappled shade.

Arching over the winding asphalt,
the live oaks,
those ancient sentinels,
hang in enduring watch,
dripping with lace lichen.

Lone canyon trees stand watch in the fields—
shepherds of the lowland plains.

Time is harder to keep
out here in the valley.
Everything moves
at a slower, pastoral pace.
One day folds into the next;
grapes plumper by morning.

The oaks live for a thousand summers,
dropping ten thousand acorns each year.

As the sun sets on the hills,
the starry ladle glides
across the wild charcoal heavens,
scooping up the secret prayers
we whisper to the night sky
and letting them fall like acorns across the boughs.

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Donalyn White is a PhD student living in Southern California. Their recent writing can be found in Big Sky Journal, Lesbian Home Journal, and Door is a Jar, among others. Much to Mary Oliver’s disappointment, Donalyn can be found walking on their knees for 100 miles through the desert repenting.