Walkin' with Joaquin

I couldn't get up to the Park again today...I miss it...but I did submit this report about my wanderings in the Memorial Grove to the CWC Bulletin .  Walk with me, through the Park where poets lived, and try to imagine an Oak Woodland down there, not a town creeping up the hill, not a temple pointing to the sky, not a stadium, airport, and in the distance, the jutting middle finger of a bigger city. Try to imagine humans seeking truth, seeking each other, feeling the sky is enough, seeing it through impassioned verse and purple prose. So inspired, that over the years they saw the view through to become a park. These Hights that once swarmed with artists, with storytellers, all with the call of some frontier or another in their veins.  As the CWC Writer-in-Residence I walk and write weekly in the Park, dodging bicycles and poison oak, spying on crows and squirrels, snacking on miner’s lettuce and berries, trying to build a bridge from that world to this one, and to what comes next.