San Francisco Bay and “Mt. Tam”

Every day there’s the bay, every day, every night, once, it was Estero de Jaltepec: 
       Kingdom of Sand: warm, coconut-sweet, not salt. 
                                                                                       We jumped from the pier, 
we jumped from mangroves when air was thick gold honey. We’d come up 
       and there it was, El Volcán de Chinchontepec: 
                                                                                       Mountain of Breasts: 
dormant, with a cornfield-skirt. Twenty years above the tropic, every day, 
       every night, there’s “Mt. Tam,” its Coast Miwok name 
                                                                                                        Tamalpais 
shortened by gringos: foreign and invasive like pampas grass, 
       like eucalyptus, like every single white seed of dandelions.