great great grandpa got rich in knee deep mud, sifting through red dirt until his hands touched the shine, gold nuggets that were the size of a moon canyon.

money begged his interest, and he went to that land, california honey, they had a funeral for his morals back home. he cashed in, jewels dripping, smile greed.

he said that the mountains were inhabited by gods, and that in the valleys heaven touched. they called for rain often, and yet still there was sun.

great great grandpa found love in a mine somewhere, kissing ore and sticking his hands into the river rapids, daring the water to take him next.

he got rich, they say, under the cracked lip prayers of the prospector. dad says we get our tempting fate from him. our life on the edge, our teetering brain.

for california, is it really all that different? he said it was the same road anywhere, same road that we know today. same dirt, different sky.

somehow we always come back to this place. aye, the spirits are here. aye, this grass is greener than any.

for what is a rush when the gold runs out, when you finally know what you have been robbed of?