I think the sights, sounds, and smells of the Rio Hondo call for a poem. Now, I'm not actually a poet in any sense of the word, but when I think of the Rio Hondo, I experience such a blur of images and smells and emotions that it seems only a poem could rightly capture it.
Alas, when I showed Matt my attempt at Rio Hondo poetry, he looked at me quizzically and said, "Are those your notes for writing sentences?"
Ahem.
Nonetheless, I'm going to brave - as brave as I have to be to bike in L.A. - and hurl my poem into the great blogger unknown. Here 'tis:
Deep River
Thirty-four miles
Round trip
But not so much round as up and down.
Down under multitudes of highways
Back up the other side.
Dodging dogs not on leashes
Breathing in horse sweat
Breathing out the dry dust of thirsty sunflowers.
Shift down, down, down to creep up, up, up the
Steep rise to see, heart bursting
The dam closed, still.
Heaving old concrete cradles smooth
Black paving,
Hidden graffiti.
Bikers, walkers, strollers, bladers, borders, drinkers, sleepers.
Roosters and chickens screaming in morning joy,
Silent by noon,
One happily calling back err-err-rrrr.
And the girl swiftly pedaling, mama right behind,
Papa a yard ahead,
Her army green helmet sprinkled with rhinestones.
A knowing smile between the newlyweds,
Who found a trail.
In L.A.
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