Nature Poem: or, Things Other People Love About Los Angeles

The irony of the LA River,
its homeless growing
old under each bridge,
the sparse swamp grass.

The hills, lit up like a forest
fire, tires and fences running
coyotes into the streets
of the valley.

The Santa Anas, airy cliché,
always a surprise, burning
away the last hope of mild
summer afternoons.

The three days of solid rain
each year, ruining the lives
of millions of people, one
weekend out of fifty-two.

The canyons at dusk, stark,
majestic, dangerous
in rush hour traffic, cars
overlooking the precipices.

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