In the mountains that cradle
the Stanislaus River, we gather 
in the vista point parking lot
and lie down on the ground.
Friends for years, we’ve driven farm roads
past field corn, pears and the cool
shade of walnut groves 
that darken the valley floor.
Passed Copperopolis and Farmington
where the only bathroom for miles 
was at the back of a two-pump 
station, wood-slat door
warped so the lock didn’t work,
flies and light settling in the sink.
This year, the river runs high,
bone-chilling and green—record snow
and the high camps closed.
From the bridge we saw
the widening road and patches
of rust among the green pines—
trees that are dying. 
In the mountains, nights are cold.
But the day’s heat seeps
from the dark tar and I feel 
warmth where the points of me
touch down. We lie on our backs and wait 
for the meteor showers.
Sometimes we shift direction,
follow the horizon or the Big Dipper
or the moon, but we keep looking
and take pleasure in each other’s ahhs
as stars flare through the atmosphere
making extinction
look beautiful.