Every place on earth, regardless of how perfect,
has something to worry about.
The Coast has earthquakes, the North has too much snow,
there are more people than space in New York,
and the South gets blown away every so often.
In the middle of it all, there is something called Tule River Fog in
California's Great Central Valley.
Like clock work, the Tule Fog starts laying in around November and
pretty well decides to stay for awhile as a wet gray blanket seeping
into everyone's center backs as shivers run down an old ghost.
Has the Valley raised up a frozen cloud to visit its brothers and
sisters on the mountain peaks,
or has it taken us down forever into the secrets of the ancient mists from
last year's promised rain?
There are moments when just a small, gentle touch is needed to make sure
what we think we see
is still there.
And true to its name each Spring,
for the first time once again, the answer is found
looking through the flickering light of a light patterned curtain
blowing gently in the breeze
and wondering if the good weather will hold
for the cotton this coming summer.
Poems © 1999 D.L. Zimmerman, all rights reserved
appear here by permission
This poem is a little ode to the coming of Spring in the San Joaquin Valley -- a place pretty well dead center in between everything else that most people know about California.