Equinox afternoon at James Dilley Preserve, LCWP

Led a nature writing hike* yesterday, at the flowerful and birdelicious James Dilley Preserve, part of the Laguna Coast Wilderness Park.

Four writers joined me; it was fun to first sit around and discuss our favorite wild places in Orange County, and then go out and absorb a little of the lemon-scented-everlasting beauty of the Canyon Trail (also known as the Bea Whittlesey trail).

(*the first time in two months I've worn shoes while hiking . . . and my toes hurt at the end . . . which does not happen when I am barefoot . . . )

Bloomers included a mysterious and tiny yellow lotus (see photo above), popcorn-colored popcorn flower, blue dichlostema, monkey flower in soft shades of orange and salmon, and at the top of the ridge along the Mariposa Trail: billows of yellow and reddish deerweed blossoms (the flowers change color after pollination).

Speaking of deerweed . . . it's a favorite hangout for ticks—they're waiting for deer to come by for a bite. I had to brush a few off my shirt after sitting trailside for a “close-your-eyes-and-soak-it-all-in” exercise.

We admired, and wrote about, a gigantically ancient coast live oak (Quercus agrifolia) about a half mile up the trail on the left. You'll recognize her when you see her.

“I am the oak” was our refrain as we made up lines to a song she might sing when no one is around . . . I worked on my notes some more at home last night . . .

I am the oak. I allow some sun

to dapple past, but most of the light

I devour, transform, to pink whispers of sharp

new growth, yellow catkins that promise a harvest.

I am the oak, raining down generations

of acorns on woodpecker, squirrel, and deer.

I am the oak. Orbits of insects

revolve around me, on me and under.

Where is the center of life's universe

for a California Sister? Wait through the winter,

find her eggs hidden in my curled leaves,

which Sister larvae nibble, somehow translate

from toothed and waxy sunlight refractors

to black, orange and blue-blushed butterfly wings.

I am the oak. Whole forests of lichen

march over my branches, pattern on pattern.

I am the oak, providing for thousands

even in death. Hawk will perch, owl nest

in my bare silhouette until the small workers

feast with the fungi and turn me to sponge—

enriching the soil in dark crumbled dampness.

I am the oak. You are all welcome.