Through the mountains

Sitting on the dock by the Crockett mountainside

I sat here since morning

I’ll sit here till evening comes.

Everyone else is on the moon.

The sun don’t shine down where they are

gravel don’t dance on the air where they are

hammers don’t hang off backs where they are

rivers don’t darken

berries don’t blacken where they are

butterflies don’t line stomachs where they are

But the railroad needs room through the mountain.

Everyone else is on the moon

except me, except him.

Sitting on the dock by the Crockett mountainside

I watch the tides roll out

I watch the ships roll in.

He rolls in on them.

To the north his name means hardy

to the east his name means son of Olorun

to the south his name means boy

his name means home to me

his leather boots baked through, nails hold the sole

his overalls so worn, spare string holds them on

he holds heaven in his smile,

hell in his hands

two steel hammers hang off his back look like butterfly wings.

Butterflies line our stomachs as we meet on the bay dock

You sat here since morning, watching tides roll out? he says

Gravel dances on the air around you, I say

But the railroad needs room through the mountain, he says

everyone else is on the moon, don’t you miss them?

I do miss them.

But darkened rivers taste fresher

blackened berries taste sweeter when I’m with him

the sun shines down on the hammers,

the mountains, the bay water,

the sun shines with glory when I’m with him.

When I’m with him, I’m home.

Some say Taylor Rivers is too odd to forget. All he wants is to make the world smile in his short existence, then climb the highest hill in the Bay Area and plant a garden when all is over. His writing has littered Palaver‘s digital halls since their premiere, follow the way back and enjoy.