for eb Who knew leaves could land like this. Twin silhouettes on wet pavement. Half a century of travel to meet again, sisters. Water and sap through veins. Decades of San Joaquin Valley orchards of orange fed by concrete aqueducts. Leafless hedges like oversized bonsai in the hundred degree heat. But then, under San Francisco Bay’s sky eucalyptus scent so heady it’s medicinal, this arrival on spindly fronds. Your familiar intonation. Such root pressure and photosynthesis, this rush toward one another and countless years of understanding. Sun prints of snowy white on indigo paper. A piñon sprig that hosts the edible nut buried in thick coffee-colored skin, cracked open. Rainfall conversation. Geography no hindrance. Just the mention of your name.