Thin Air

When it takes more and more danger to hold things together

I loved those mornings 
in the Porsche
leaving Marina Del Rey.

Our boot are laced,
Camelbaks filled,
$8 skim lattes in hand.

We cross the 405 to the 101
as the marine layer burns off,
Pacific behind us
San Gabriels ahead. 

              ******

You always check the weather,
but today you said nothing,
though the wind is red flagged,
and the fire warning's extreme.

This devil's backbone, 
lives up to its name,
we hug the hill,
watch our steps.

Near 4,000 feet,  
I slow down to breathe
in the thin mountain air.

Just two minutes, I say.
Go ahead, I tell you.
And of course you do.

The puppy keeps running 
back and forth on the trail,
so conflicted, poor guy,
between keeping up with you
and protecting me.

            ******

I smell the smoke
right as you spot it, 
sky tinged rusty,
and this changes everything
because it’s rising below us.

We are supposed 
to be experienced, 
to know what we’re doing,
as we start hustling downhill. 

But things get confusing
and you can't rush switchbacks,
and we almost leave the trail.

I think of my children
alone without me
in this big, brutal world,
and how we didn’t tell anyone
where we were hiking that day.

             ******

But at the end of this story, 
it’s just another close call,
and back in the valley,
we sprint to the car. 

We drive towards the ocean,
the fire behind us, 
soon just a puff 
on distant skyline. 

You are jubilant 
and alive with it all, 
and that’s all I wanted,
another adventure
with you.

But my East Coast heart knows,  
these days together
in the thin mountain air
are burning out fast.

Soon just a little plume 
of a memory
over the horizons
of opposite coasts.