Silvery cool air and the sun on a clear day. A man grabs something out of his truck. He has the neatest head of white hair and a moustache as brilliant. Two bicyclists are in no rush. They converse, but are at a distance, and so, they shout. We stop at King and Laurel and a motorist to my right freezes. I signal my hand, “Please, go ahead.” They make a left and look askance at the bicyclists. I wonder if it is because they are likely unhoused and are shouting (but also smiling). I think about their fear for a while. Lute music plays on. A young student with his jacket and backpack not quite half worn crosses the road, muttering to himself. 284 spots open this late morning, but I ended up backing into a spot two levels above ground.
Cooler, stinging air in my chest. A late afternoon sky that makes it difficult to remember how the rays meet the earth. The ocean is covered in a thick blanket of fog; the fog is just over the ocean, like a bath of freshly whipped cream. Greys, just greys. I don’t roll my windows down today, because the air is colder now. I saw this woman replacing her engine oil last week and now she is busy taking items out of the trunk. Two dogs wait patiently as their owner clears their scat, more patiently when she drops one bag full of scat. They seem happy, the three of them together. More than a few children are biking towards school and I wonder why, in the middle of the afternoon. A young girl with confident hair and a gaze a mile away crosses, looking down at the curb before she steps up onto it. The trees are turning along Peyton, their yellow-orange plumage stamping yellow-orange shadows along the sidewalks.