out on the trail;
it’s the first year
of my eighth decade,

wearing a tee shirt,
in February,
early February—
New England boychik,
this is your winter now:

an afternoon moon
well-waxed, gibbous,
rises early
over chaparral

twirling helixes,
tortoiseshells
dogfight for basking rights
on ochred sandstone walls
sun-fired for aeons

as an Anna’s hummingbird
darts overhead,
buzzes me, a
blurring miraculous
on this sacred
coastal mountain