In Lost Hills, California, the dog sleeps on a motel bed. A hundred yards east the long haul truckers drift gently off to sleep at 75 per. Their trailers sway sinuously, sensuously, heedless of the dotted white line.
I got off the road.
At Rodeo Beach today the brown pelicans skimmed brisk surf flawlessly, the wave crests missing their breast feathers by millimeters. We watched them fly in their characteristic perfect formation, bonded to each other inviolable and unseen.
In Maxwell Park, the scent of jasmine and the scent of citrus. The dog pulls me up steep night streets, past Art Deco ghosts, past the shed feathers of owls.