I.

The things that are mising are as many as the anthers on a buckeye tree,
drawing bees from far and wide.
The things that are missing are as many as the argentine ants
streaming into my kitchen from a hole below the sink.
The things that are missing are as many as the strands of your hair against my cheek
soft, dark, and curly tickling as we go to sleep at night.

II.

Some days we try to count.
Begin here, we say.
Once there was a grassland that stretched to the horizon full of purple needle grass,
california oatgrass, and alkali sacaton.
Once there were rivers that ran down from the Coast Range unfettered
fish swimming up them from the delta: fall run chinook, white sturgeon, pacific lamprey.
Once I had a mother who loved to talk politics, read voraciously, and make snide remarks about our neighbors in the super market.

III.

Questions arise:
Should we count as missing the mountains that once stood on top of the Sierra?
Should we count as missing the arcto-tertiary flora, once so abundanct?
If star thistle goes extinct tomorrow, will we put it on our list?

IV.

When I ride in the rain
drops falling one by one
pooling up on my thighs
running off into the street.
When I see the mist lying on Lake Berryessa
on a winter afternoon, the Blue Ridge
stretching North to South above
a lid of fog.
When I hear sandhill cranes calling
across the horizon, passing of feathers
as they land with legs down
amassing in fields South of Sacramento.

Then I stop counting.