Proud Energy After the wildfires our cities are brighter at sunset. Doctors with carphones and the young leave work early to watch the dragon streaks of orange. In the hills, new energy as the rattlesnakes plan stamina among the dry coyote bushes; coastal winds with careless or all-mothering powers blow ashes of brushfires up from L.A. over the homeless on the avenues, a backless song of the conquered and the conquerors since California is its own muse... In town, people we've stepped over all day rise to get dinner in the churches. Mostly pasta on doubled paper plates. They put boiled eggs in their pockets for later, as Saturn's shadow might swallow its small moons. When is the moment the prophets arrive? Curled carrots look lively and pierced. The addicts eat fast, but others put extra bread slowly in bags, bread with proud energy passed from sun to the wheat which will help the people back to the avenue, to unlearn the directions, they stagger toward standing-- (can you remember standing as a baby before you learned your boundaries too well?) Sunset on the leather faces, asking for money; should we give it to them (you survivor--) and whom do we work for? the family? for the guy with tassels on his loafers of the coiled internal snake that's happy only after we've fed it the small mammal of the unexpected? Beside us the goodbye love generation awaits the prophetic moment -- And if there's no prophetic moment? No lightning instructions from the root of the laurel, no fire congress at the center of the world, if we can't even say Not this time clearly into them, maybe if we just notice one thing: look at the buttons for instance: how many are there? Look at the corner of the eyes: moisture triangles, sleep scum...We wanted the perfect heart but this energy didn't spin one of those. The imperfect heart of love is not looking away-- -- Brenda Hillman