At the end of the road, Mount Miguel stands
as if it were monument to a land
tangible and not quite tangible all
at once. Spikes, like radio towers, pull
upwards, a castle of iron and steel.
From way down here, summer reels
with the mount in the background, kids riding
bikes practice tricks on the hills. Balancing
their bodies on seats and handlebars,
they collect scrapes, gushing blood on tar,
until their mothers beg them to stop.