I was there,
in California,
the morning the mountain moved
and, for a while afterwards,
stood barefooted
in the middle of the street,
in the unlighted valley,
smoking a cigarette--
outside, alone, a performance
in California--
and the earth was so quiet,
so unearthly still, I looked up
and heard the stars moving,
making a sound like distant surf
in the blue-black ocean sky
and if, indeed, lightning's
trailed by rumbles, surely
stars can rustle and they do
because I heard them
that dark, early morning
in California.