You know in ancient times it was all underwater.

The sandstone studded with fossil shells,

stromatolites in the Santa Monicas

betray the seascape these mountains once were.

The old folks, the ones still with us, will tell you

when all of this was nothing but orange groves

And here I am again, cradled by the rocks,

looking over the hills into the ocean of my youth—

familiar ranch houses on dusty acres 

nestled between alien four-story luxury condos.

So this is After, this is the Return.

I have no idea what it means to change,

and yet.