If crying were an Olympic sport
Surely, I would medal
I can weep over the Tule elk
Displaced from the grasslands
Their marshes siphoned to make way for cash crops
I think of them while driving through the valley
The stop motion blur of almond orchards tug at my vision
If only if only, on loop between my ears
It’s no great feat to cry at the news
But I will do that too
Mothers move around a pile of their dead children
Each of them wrapped in white cloth knotted at both ends
For a moment I think of trying to find my daughter
Could I tell it is her just by the shape of the cloth?
Or would my hands know better than my eyes, the contours of her small face?
The question itself splinters something in me
Something that will never fully mend
They say stay soft and I laugh
Oh, to have that choice
Salt water washes the silt,
Not away, but through my fingers
Back into the receding tide of this moment