I step onto the street, reluctant to find my own sense of time,
how do I make it work?
The haunted, frightened place where I made my home that summer,
fog-kissed––no fog blanketed––even the redwoods were afraid to progress too far,
curling and seeking sustenance in sandy loam.
You want to know how people lived centuries ago?
live outdoors without device, or anything but the miserable
scrabble in your own head.
We were the crazy ones, the survivors.