Smell evokes the strongest 
memories— bypassing thymus,

racing right to the olfactory 
bulb, like some nutso driver in 

stop-and-go, passing everyone 
on the road’s shoulder.

Today I am in the fog of 
coastal redwoods, 2500

miles away from Georgia’s
August oppression—heat 

and humidity so bad you 
can see fungi grow—sometimes,

even on yourself. So yesterday,
the Tuesday after the funeral 

of my wife’s oldest sister, we’re
hiking in the redwoods and I 

am suddenly triggered by a
branch laced with emerald knife blade-leaves,

and instead of the Russian River 
Valley, I’m fifteen, standing on 

Pacific Coast Hwy One at 
Cayucos, thumb out, having just 

picked a few bay laurel leaves to
place under my backpack straps—leaves 

pushing out the scent of good health— 
pungent, peppery, part thyme, part 

oregano, somehow slowing my
heart rate—deepening inhalations 

and exhalations—injecting a fog
of calm so intense I’ve forgotten
 
the thrown objects and occasional 
blows of my bipolar mother—  

and the oozing wound just to the 
left of my heart, sliced by a Dad’s 

perpetual absence—ghosts 
resurrecting phoenix-like, fifty

years later, as I pick leaves from 
another bay laurel—when my

cell rings and I hear the voice 
of my older daughter, the veterinarian.
                        

Since 4 AM he’s been going 
through his bootleg catalog 
cardinal chirps, metal band
grackle, and chipping sparrow 
trills.

Unmated males sing at odd
hours, bills leering at
all that moves, even cars.

Hope slides in on the second
beam of every sunrise, even 
though last call was ten days past.

5:37 AM and he’s still pleading.
True dawn an hour away—
but work-thoughts climb
over the fading fence of
sleep.