reference frames

Sunrise over the San Joaquin Valley, first light meeting with sky cresting the silhouettes of Livermore windmills. Dropping down, over the hill and into the till, at once liquid goldenrod bubbles up from behind the tanglestemmed almond orchards, revealing a fertile and windswept expanse: the cows licks of jet black on browned and flattened grass, the Aqueduct a silver serpentine gently contorting up the Valley center, the Sierras in the East somewhere invisible.

North is at my back and all of my life is in the trunk of my car. Mere hours ago I stood in my half dark and half empty room, contemplating the redness in the corners of my eyes. Berkeley, I can hardly believe this is it. But, something tells me I’ll be back. I’ve lived in a couple of places (not everywhere, of course) and I’ve never felt more at home than I do in the Bay. For now, though,  SoCal, suburbia, and desert Christmas await. Surely, traveling, and changing, slides by easier when you’re just barely conscious, accelerated forward by the strange magnetism of the unknown laid out before.

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