Sunday, August 18, 2019

At the table near us a loud older woman is talking about her recent colonoscopy, her fear of dying, her trust funds, her grandkids.  I want to tell her to lower her voice, I am writing with a friend.  We don’t have ear lids like we have eye lids.  No way to shut out the sound.

At lovers point the ocean is so calm it looks like a picture.  Finally, I am able to perceive tiny ripples and birds flying close to the surface.

The metal mail box is covered in wiggly oak worms.  Now where are those hungry blue jays I saw yesterday.

Flower offerings are beginning to accumulate at the corner of Madison and Pacific to honor the pedestrian who was killed by a truck. Sigh.