Catalina Eddies

Diana García

Dusk to dawn, sleek skunks enjoy

avocados in my yard. I give wide berth.

Before the first jogger leaves her prints

on pavement, tough raccoons appear.

They pretend they don’t hear my keys click

but they peek to make sure it’s me.

Foxes play hide-and-seek,

sometimes on our lawn, other times

across the street, but never after seven;

and brazen squirrels eye me

from the center of the street,

dare me to approach.

Will this be a day for Catalina eddies,

clouds stacked, catching like magnets

in a liquid air swirl?

Or will it blow a fierce Santa Ana,

days of fires in the hills,

smoldering chaparral,

winds so fierce birds do low-crawls?

I cast a spell for Santa Anas

the shallow coast a censer

mixed with black sage, Torrey Pine,

Engelmann oak—precious oils

to fumigate the San Diego skies,

the annual burning pulse.