First the windmills
white as wings
spanned across the hills
We drove and drove
beneath them, turning
folding into trees,
green and flashing past then opened,
freeway,
into town
The drive through downtown
Santa Cruz, pastel air
on ropes and anchors,
front brick fences
low and cracked,
Leaf yellow,
mustard bright,
sun spilled flowers
on the shadowed porch
If we ever went in winter
Only spring and hammocked summer
I cannot go there anymore
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