The Week In Quick Review

The blowsy old roses could hardly hold their heads up, surrendering their petals to the howling winds.

Two turkey vultures cut through cobalt sky, so close I heard the whip of wings, so graceful I forgot they circle death.

The raucous lunacy of chickens greeted me when I rode my bike past Jeanne’s house.

“I am the Egg Woman,” Jeanne said. “It’s a good role, and I’m proud of it.”

Fog meandered in, squatted for awhile, lifted and drifted to sea.

We went walking with two emissaries from the planet of the 20-somethings, filling the canyon with laughter and talk. How long will our chatter hang in the air? Is it mingling with the cricket song tonight?

And then there was the lady who danced barefoot with a shy cowboy, looking weightless and nimble as a poem. I hope she felt the way she looked and keeps the memory.

Dolphins spun and pelicans splashed, and one boy floated like a manatee, slow and content, ‘til Bev and Barbara called him back to shore.

Passions flew and were misconstrued. (Too many wars have been fought over how to love.)

Three tiny deer came down from the hill, stood bewildered at the roadside, and bounded back up into the brush.

Painters in straw hats painted on the bluff, dabs of oil on canvas; worlds emerged.

There was a toast to friendship at a redwood picnic table. Someone announced that the secret to avoiding a headache from wine is to drink tequila instead.

Anxiety at 3 a.m. Wind funneling through an inch of open window, rooms white with moonlight, words written and unsent.

And then there was that barbecue, fire engines and all, and ice cream for the kiddies, and all varieties of crazy hearts, some sincere, some woozy with the glitz, and fear of fire perhaps our common ground.

A little burst of blondes infused the line for Margaritas, the long-straight-hair kind of blondes wearing sundresses and cowboy boots, their skin brick tan, their party-drive in overdrive.

Ol’ Fos wore a broad-brimmed felt hat almost as old as he is, and he sat in the sun with a plate on his lap, and sometimes his head dropped to his chest and he dozed between bites.

Doyle was wishing he could go to the cave and stand where the Chumash stood and look down the canyon to the sea.

“I’ve been to Tahiti,” said the famous movie director, “and I’ve been here. And in many ways here is more beautiful.”

Wind rippled the grass and hazed the horizon and the road looked very tired.

“We’ll get the place back,” said the cowboy, surveying the crowd. “Come winter, it will be ours again.”

Not that it ever is.

I do not know which to prefer: the last mauve hue of dusk above the sea or morning’s pale light wheeling over the eastern mountains.