Wine Country
by Jacob Minasian
History is written out of itself.
The Napa River spins, crosshatched
in the December wind. Scintilla
sitting on a timeline’s shore. A blue
heron wings wide from its jutting
riverside roots. Sandpipers
feathering through puddled
mud. Loons dip their heads in
reflection, and the homes of swallows
stucco a bridge as I pass underneath.
Barbeque and gelato line banks
where bars and jails arrived before,
living arranged so minorities flooded
first, down in a channel now filled in
to forget. Bright buildings hide the
hangman’s rope. My kayak cuts
across surface. My oars source rings.
History is written out of itself.
A lichen rust on tree metal.