I aleady have my bridge picked out, located along the mountain road called California 49. I discovered it while driving from a hot springs near Donner's Pass, descending out of the Sierra Foothills. I passed an afternoon searching for gold flakes upon the marble boulders of its riverbed. Big as cars, these marble boulders were white marble with black flecks, like coffee grounds. I could sleep on them all night in comfort, enjoying the warmth absorbed from daytime sun. The rushing stream below them could lull me to sleep no matter how troubled threatened to make me wakeful. Many Californians take to these wilds to camp, especially when they want to save money and lie low. Kenneth Rexroth the poet would spend a spell living in the mountains then take an apartment or house when he wanted a city life for a time.
I have eschewed cigarettes for almost a week now. I wonder if the swab used for indicating tobacco use will return a positive or a negative. On the survey, I responded no to the question, do you use tobacco or tobacco products. The question was in the present tense; therefore I wasn't using tobacco this week, so I answered yes, feeling I was being truthful. I am in the park in Ferrysburg on the edge of the Grand River, where I once stopped for a Smokey treat. I took a walk around the park finding the path up to M104. The bridge crosses the mouth of Spring Lake. I also found some abandoned railroad track sinking into the grass, leading to the Johnson Boiler Factory, which has made steamship boilers since the time of Fulton. There is a tent outdoors at Old Boys Brewery, probably for parties. I saw a locust tree in the parking lot, all its pods scattered and ineffective on the concrete. Thought of scooping all of them up and reforesting an acre of land.
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