As I gain the trail to Kennedy Ridge suddenly I'm a poet again, heart pumping like a cosmologist's aqueous dreams. A man strolls past me, leaning on a California Black Oak cane. "I never knew where this road went," he says. "How long have you lived here?" "Fifty-eight years." We both laugh, and his dog marks the spot. Red dust and tire tracks struggle up a path where Smokey the Bear is no longer there. On the way home, I stop by a rock hidden from the road, on which is painted              Center of the Universe. Sit down and look around.