We cross the sleeping water on the San Rafael Bridge.

Red rocks lie in it, like sleepers who will not awake.

The water is deep blue,

Washing quietly about the rocks, as if watching.

We drive north through brown hills in the California winter,

Hills with green trees, sloping quickly down to the road

Or to a barn fence, with twenty skinny cows,

And two men spreading some straw in a field.

Ahead of us on the shoulder I see Santa Clauses for sale,

Standing with outstretched arms in the warm sun,

Reaching toward us, wrapped in clear cellophane.

A sign: Meadowbrook Ranch. Horses for Sale.

How strange to think of horses being sold!

Hiding behind their great eyes

Other hills, and sides of barns,

Owners they have loved, now gone,

Passed into the dark trees on the hill.