Close up, the poppies mix with tiny purple and pale yellow flowers,
a stray lupine, green brush, sand. From a distance they weave
bright yellow trails to the green hills and snowtopped ridgelines.
You might expect to see an easel or two set up beyond the verge.
You can buy poppy seeds along the road. People move about
among the flowers. What they do on a Sunday is bring their tripods,
cameras, a picnic lunch, set out their chairs as if they were seaside
in the blossoms spread over the wavy hills, a scatter of people
in the middle of nowhere by a few dirt roads in the sand.
The countryside is brown desert brush and spotty color. Moths leave
splats on the windshield the same bright golden shade. Magnificence
is the rise, the sprawl, the vista. And the holiness of silence.
It must have felt the same to watchers, once, on that peak in Darien.
© by Mary Lou Taylor.
Used with the author’s permission.