Clear skies, rosy skies in fact. With the folds and winds of fog far on the horizon, past the ridge of hills. This is a California of the imagination, rendered even more colorful and even more distant through the kind of filter that is mostly the province of Hollywood and Silicon Valley. And maybe a few kitschy painters….
It’s very quiet in this space between the day and nightfall. It’s Sunday night, but for the cicadas, keeping a low and steady sound, it makes no difference what the day is called. The chickens my neighbor keeps have settled a long time ago. The crows too, have worked out their roosting wars. The saws and leaf blowers and grass cutters that have flared up during the afternoon across the hills have been put away some time ago.
Years ago, this space between the day and night, and the week that was and the week that is going to be, the one between the world that is my house and the world at large that should be my home, this space would have been heaven. It still is, but even with that vast horizon out there, the space seems shrunken. No bigger than a hammock, precariously strung between trees with roots too tangled and limbs a little on the dry side.