Cruising up the 101, I am a singing along with my sister and Jimmy Buffett. The sun, not a weak and watery winter’s light, but a bold, brain-slicing glare, cuts through the windshield, making me almost miss the silhouette of Anacapa Island rising out of the ocean. We stop to visit a ninety-five year-old widow. She lives alone in a ranch house at the mouth of a canyon, where coyotes come and go at night. Her age and circumstances do not keep her from doing her chores. We are silent as we drive back home.
Three towels to the wind
Frost on the grass this morning