Spring in El Cerrito

Only the children seem to notice the water
bubbling from the brook, through the mulch
put there to stamp out the weeds.

They run across the bikepath
oblivious, their hands full of daffodils.

You walk your dog, head bent
on listening to your I-pod.
How could you hear
the birds in the bushes?

"I could eat those dandelions
but I won't," you say
gesturing on Bluetooth to the flowers
we used to call soursuckles
for which Californians have no name.