What started with a few smooth stones,
expanded: backwards, inside out,
with more and fewer stones;
gathering nuts from the eucalypts,
immigrants now natives.
They lack gravitas. They wander
in the breeze off the fog, though
eucalypts and fog are always
together in my heart for this place.
The fog has a sound that smothers
the whine of tires, crowding it
into a second or two though
when unencumbered,
it fills the space between the hills.
Sound: wind in the rattlesnake grass,
wild oats further uphill. All walled out
among the pines filled with their own sound.
The eucalypt nuts are green
with the gray of fog.
Neither are covered
by the grammar
of juggling.
I remember I am using
the grammar of juggling
to regain
lost proprioception.
I do not know where
I all am.
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