Bolinas Ridge,
I tell Lisa. We need to do it.
She smiles, lets the sand
filter through her fingers.
Lisa’s eyes squint
at the sun above me.
I feel the sand shift behind,
off-balance.
Jorge towers there.
His skin and hair are dark.
His words are swallowed
in his smile.
I heard you say Bolinas Ridge?
I hike there all the time.
He talks about
living here his whole life.
We ask him lagoon questions
and about the hippies
who live in Bolinas.
He tells us they like
to remove the highway
signs to keep people away.