I Hope You're Writing

“I hope you’re writing,” she wrote, and I was swept up and away by it, her hope. She, between church and America’s Got Talent, imagines me at the keyboard typing fiercely poetic words about wild rabbits or falcons and California poppies. The poppies form seed pods like long green talons and reach out of my flower beds to caress my legs as I pass. The falcon is spotted later on a power line on the way to a play that hasn’t opened yet. I will arrive and discover I’ve been given the wrong date. I’ll watch the actors filing in the front door for a dress rehearsal.

Rushing home from the Campbell theater, I’ll return to my studio and clack furiously on my keyboard, fantasy of a landscape writer brought to life. I’ll describe the winding roads in Martinez, the wild patches of golden oats, and an old broken-down pickup so coated with dust that the original color is concealed. Returning to my neighborhood, the rosebushes will be as tall as trees, heavy with red, yellow, purple, white, and sunset colored blooms. The actual sun, setting, will assault my eyes as I drive, making me squint. I’ll stop at the corner gas station for an orange-flavored carbonated water, 0 calories.

There is no rabbit, but I’ll mention it anyway. I want to see one, and it’s bound to happen, maybe by Borges Ranch on the Twin Ponds Loop or at Castle Rock, where I’ve catalogued the textures of tree bark and the shape of white sage leaves in photos. There are poppies there too, and many birds. This is what I’ll mention, fingers flying at the keyboard. I’ll speculate that a rabbit could be seen in these wild spaces if I went there instead of to theaters to see plays that aren’t being performed. Then, I would realize her hope that I am writing. I, too, hope that I am writing.