Coastal Redwoods

The chill rose an hour before
I did, and now washes over my
leg-skin as I run, wondering
how water and air have the same
touch, despite different parentage,
liquid versus gas — both homogenous
states that lick and envelope to
varying degrees.

In the redwoods, the air is rinsed
by millions of feathery needles —
as if some roc or Archaeopteryx
had moulted all at once, but July
is a month with large enough hands
to hold this green royal flush.
At seven-thirty, sunbeams are
do-si-doeing with redwood needles.

Yesterday, we drove from Sacramento —
a week with my five surviving
sibling-in-laws — we discuss burial
of the sixth and oldest — opinions
hot as the triple-digit July
dailies of the great Central Valley — which
is why, despite internet temp checks,
I’m in running shorts, when it’s fifty-two
degrees — carry-ons being finite vessels.

Where should the urn of ashes go, and
more importantly, where the fuck is it?
Memorial service, funeral mass,
or both? Is there a will, or are…