In Riverdale

We returned to our beginnings 
            in August, with its crayola green 
            trees and grass, blue sky, 
and yellow light so certainly imposed 
that desert light and night and hues 
            wavered within us. 

We settled near the mountains, 
            opening our windows 
to crickets wooing a canyon breeze. 
            We tried to believe 
we can fit this time among our dearest 
and darkest demons. We unpacked and sorted
            our souvenirs and tales 

of treading the back trails we tread still 
even as we merge into traffic. 
            People don’t request those stories. 
They say, Welcome back 
            (to this, the right place). 
Crickets translate: 
            About time.