The half-lit wilting and leafless white Birch <br />against the pink and gray Pinatubo sunset, <br />their fragile contrast to the skyline like haggard wraiths. <br />We sit on a cement bench on the shore of the artificial lake <br />made of gunite and filled with reclaimed water, <br />pitching choclate raisins at mud hens. <br />Watching them tip on end to <br />retrieve the morsels in the dark slurry. <br />There is a constant sound of rushing water in the distance, <br />as if the cement river of the San Gabriel, <br />became confused with the roar <br />of the river grade freeway. <br />Wandering out we came upon the perfect circle <br />of brown and tan goose feathers, laid like a wreath <br />or a fairy circle. <br />The content of this symmetry fed a hungry predator. <br />This thing construed to provide illusion. <br />This stand of planted trees and sewer streams <br />can’t in its failing exhibition, <br />replace the wild and natural country <br />which was once El Dorado. <br />It can only convince you for a while.<br /><br />George Murdock<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/el-dorado/
