There is a modest man from Croatia
Heart of gold and will of steel
His voice is pure California—
A terraneous voyage behind the wheel.

As we commence our solo rally,
He serenades the skies of Napa Valley
His tessitura is sweet as homegrown wine
And richer than the richest September vine

With a range containing the Altamont Hills,
He speckles melisma in flakes of falsetto
Just as the land is dotted with windmills
Commanding more energy than they’ll let you know

He hikes his falsetto up into Tuolumne
Deceptively vast, you’ll hear it in Mariposa
Pinging through the granite halls of Yosemite;
El Capitan’s never seen quite the virtuoso

Interstate 580 emerges when he sings
His agility careens through Castro Valley,
Banking curves, soaring alongside BART trains;
The asphalt river testifies his longevity

Sometimes the Marina floats upon his pipes—
The San Leandro stillness reflecting a sinking sun
In this moment, he is the skipping stones type,
Grazing each with his fingertips in breezy abandon

Forests in the mountains obscure visibility
The trees in his voice are all the same, aren’t they?
Until you round the last unpaved corner to see
The waters of Clearlake breaking green and gray

And so this man from the land of Croatia,
With his valleys and peaks and cities and lakes,
Could perform every variation of California
And drown the world’s faults and heartaches.


© Jaz Rogers