Morning at Nohl Canyon, overlooking L.A.

A mourning dove alights on the olive-beige fence
that triptychs, quinticilliptychs, septychs
my view of the city, watercolour faded
in a soft and smoggy wash.

With the skewed perspective of an easel,
high clouds canvas the sky,
white bristles loosed from my brush
and gouached into place.

Exhaust stains my vision,
painting me in olive and beige.
The dove blends into the fence
like pencil lines at my touch.

I smudge dryness with withered leaves,
dehydrated succulents and ice plant.
Dead palm fronds snake down
the trunk of my paintbrush.

I fingerpaint the landscape,
smearing concrete riverbeds into
the suburban palette of tract housing
with the rain that never comes.

It sketches me on thick, rough paper
as I await the bath of colour,
the bristling touch of brush and paint.
I mute terra cotta,

dry earth
sloping down
to the ravine
below.

Amrys O. Williams