Up On Otay

Some days I can feel the cougar stalking,

almost hear its furtive breathing close,

paws soft as air on a trail of dirt

and rock high on Otay Mountain.

Below a blue lake shimmers,

the great sea beyond forever

glimmers, yet squinting,

I can barely see it.

Suddenly a pair of rude crows squawk 
demands and complaints overhead, 
their raucous calls awaken the animal in me

while Santa Ana winds off the desert 
blow steady and hot, cleansing clarifying 
boulder, bird, bush, what’s above, 

down beneath as thoughts sharpen
and glimmer like tendrils of gold
hair in brisk currents of air.

The torrid breeze on my face purifies 
and dries eyes and throat, 
makes a single blade of grass stand out

against sky's astonishing blue,
color so saturated I can taste it.

All is vivid, easily in reach,

I can see each leaf of the wispy

Tecate cypress across the southern ridge

and even the lone truck shrouded by trees,

a four wheeled mystery somehow landed 
upright far down in steep canyon's bottom.

The rustle and sigh of oak leaves afloat,
their flutter calms in this raging heat --

everything appears clear, except whether Otay's cat

when she hears boots scraping road will strike 
with powerful claws, her awful greed,

these razor teeth that plunge like a savage 
goddess into flesh, tear muscle and tendon 
from bone.