Perfect Point

When I wake so many thoughts 
Of my two homes fill my head.

The first in North Carolina,
Where trilliums and lady slippers emerge from a thick
Layer of litter laid down year after year.  
Dogwood limbs reach wide  to catch light
Filtered by oak, maple, and hickory. 
Poplar trees race straight upward 
To breach the canopy and photosynthesize.
So much green that will blaze bright with color in the fall.

I have known these perennial residents since childhood—
That time I spent rambling through woodlands, 
And weaving along creek beds
With my black and white not-quite-all border collie,
Who froze in a perfect point when he saw a squirrel.
His mother was an Irish Setter and 
He could not help himself. 

And my second home In California
With its open hills, fires and drought,
Shaking earth, blue lupine and orange poppies.
The sun’s rays beating down
And the welcome taste of lukewarm water from my bladder pack.
Bobcats, a fox, 
A flash that might have been a mountain lion.
Buckeyes dropping everywhere.
A coast with cliffs, cypress, paintbrush,
Seed pods morphed into pea-shaped balloons.
White-tailed kites, rough-legged hawks, kestrels, 
Offshore whales, sea lions. 
Regular seals and Elephant seals,
Otters.
What can beat otters?

Still, I freeze In a perfect point toward my first home. 
Like my not-quite-all Border Collie,
I cannot help myself.