Point Reyes

It was late June, the solstice. 
The day took hours to end. You look like me,
my father said quietly. We stood by the San Andreas Fault. 
Soon, the plates would shift, toppling multiple
cities. But the rift wasn’t visible; a bay 
covered the fissure. We rested our arms 
on the railing as the sky debased itself. Pink
leaking into gold, gold reflected on dark water, 
a lesser version, a replica.