The California Pacific Coast

Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt;

and limps off the field, piteous,

all disguises thrown away.

But pride carries its banner to the last;

and fast as it is driven from one

field unfurls it in another.

                                Helen Hunt Jackson

Gnarled and twisted trees

dot the landscape, the hills,

which form the coast range.

They appear as some medieval knights,

ready to do battle on the plain.

But then again one sees

that they are merely quills,

in the greater demontage,

of beautiful, magnificent sights,

of an older California lain

before our vision of seas,

and the seasoned chills,

brought on by breezes strange,

from other dreams and sights

of the older California again.

There is the notion,

that there is between the ocean

and the mountains a view

of what is ever new,

and Mediterranean in flavor,

richly given to us to savor,

a sense of what was ranches

but now is gone, perchance is

not to be seen again except,

in those of our visions further kept

between the vision of what is new,

and what was once somehow

different, or should I say better,

that the populace, which will fetter

our minds with the reality of today.

I hear a soft played flute,

and a guitar sounding like a lute,

playing old Spanish songs,

amidst the children’s throng

of laughter and play,

which one cannot help but say,

prepares the mind for the bell

of the Mission and a distant well,

where women gather to fetch

the drink to quench the bitter vetch

of dust and dirt from along the trail,

which covers their men and stale

parched clothes reek of intrepid sun,

when a hard day’s work is done,

of an old Rancho’s tale.