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.

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