This evening while I am writing my blog after a long day exploring Jack London Park and driving through Sonoma and onward to the town of Napa where we stopped at a local Italian Deli that was out of cold cuts and salad and offered us hot sandwiches slathered in gravy instead. I watched the family pour olive oil in boiling pots on the stove while I waited. I carried the warm sandwiches to the car in a brown cardboard box. We sat in the car next to a park eating our late lunch, with chips and juice.
The Napa Valley was beautiful as ever. Golden. Thick grey storm clouds promising Sunday morning rain. Red and black cattle grazing in dips and canyons, sweeping vineyards soon to be pregnant with fruit, and mountains thick with trees and burnt limbs from fires that have raged through, cream colored roses in yellow and peach lining the winery fences, closed signs in the middle of tasting hour and light traffic.
Back home. I type on my blog. Our neighbors play mariachi music. Their barbecue pulls at my senses. I look up, and I have a visitor looking into my window answering my calls earlier. A black crow. Looking passed him, I watch his friends cast their shadows across the sky.