Saratoga
                                   by Laurel

 

Saratoga is built on a mountain
where quaint streets wind beyond
a village of delicate women, elegant women,
who sip coffee in downtown cafes
and offer thin-lipped smiles.
They stare through large, dark glasses,
the kind Jackie O wore in the sixties when
she was Jackie  K.

Things have changed, but not too much:
immigrants fill each shop, but only behind
the register, and the men are nowhere to be
seen. They still drive in late from the valley. 

By September the mountain is drowning
in grapes, their bloodied juices ferment
in wooden barrels until they can be labeled in gold.
People gather on the mountain top
to watch sunlight fall into Silicon Valley,
masking modern technology in
the old robes of purple and rose. 
When the light is spent, darkness will wrap
the mountain, but the valley will still burn,
thousands of amber pins glittering before
the arched, cracked spine of a desert.

 

 

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