On the way to Yosemite, November

We arrive in El Portal, 

just outside of Yosemite, 
after driving on highway 140 

through squares of apple orchards, 

small vineyards, 
a few pumpkin patches, 

wide flush meadows of gold 

until that unbending, solid highway 

finally curves up into the Sierras, 

into its shadows of ash and black 

that droop across the road 

and across trees of blood orange 
and lemon (but many holding on fiercely 
to their green),

some bringing to mind the lace 

my mother sewed on dresses, 

and others call up flocks 
of yellow butterflies,

as the road ribbons higher into the hills, 

narrowing and curving, sometimes 
very sharply, unstoppable as the Merced river, 

dry in places, its smooth bowels 

exposed and assailable, 

and in other places the water depthless,

and in others gurgling, until finally 

the sun slumps behind the ridges

and the Yosemite View Lodge shines 

before us like a galaxy.