From Hilltop

Lyrics

The last house falls away.
The path turns to dirt and eucalyptus root.
Three hundred and thirty-eight feet up.
Not a mountain. Just a thought.
Just high enough to see.

This is old rock.
A volcanic plug, they say.
A geological punctuation mark in a sentence of soft dirt.
The Ohlone saw the water from here, before the name.
Before the grid of streets.
The air smells of introduced trees and damp earth.
A hawk circles on the bay wind, indifferent.

And from the hilltop, the whole story.
The water, flat and gray, holding the light.
Alcatraz, a scar. Angel Island, a sleeping beast.
The far-off city, a set of teeth against the sky.
And below, our little geometry.
Our earnest, quiet town.
Laid out like a map of itself.

I can trace Solano with a finger.
See the pier pushing out from the landfill we call the Bulb.
A finger of our own making, pointing at the gate.
And the grandstand, empty now.
June 2024. The last post called.
Just a shape on the shoreline, waiting for a new story.
The cars on I-80, a river of silent light.

And from the hilltop, the whole story.
The water, flat and gold, holding the light.
Alcatraz, a scar. Angel Island, a sleeping beast.
The far-off city, a set of teeth against the sky.
And below, our little geometry.
Our earnest, quiet town.
Laid out like a map of itself.

The hill doesn't care about the names.
Ocean View. Albany.
It doesn't care about the horses, or the art made from trash.
It held this view when there was nothing but marsh and oaks.
It will hold this view when the grandstand is gone.
When our houses are gone.
It just holds the wind. It just feels the sun.
A quiet joke, told in igneous rock.

The light is going.
Turning the bay to brass.
Time to go down.
Back into the map.
Carrying the view.