THE VIEW FROM HERE

Coming out of the Village this evening, I let my blue truck take the onramp west into the setting sun, in time to hear the mission bell for vespers. Another day goes down. I can see fifteen miles, to where the coast turns and disappears at Shoreline. Beyond that, millas de las goletas, lost in the setting sun. But closer to home, in the cup of sea at Summerland, a puff of fog pretends to be mist thrown up by a crashing surf that really lies flat as a rug. Even the abstract vapors learn to live in a peace that eludes us.

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