9am

It was the morning of the Puerh & the peeled drape, the roar of a lawnmower & the light, a loud shine. A made bed and a gold mine. It was the morning of the Language & the loud dog, the bark of a neighbor & the ticket-man, an expensive call. A made bed and a black shawl. The sun always comes up around here and tends to the roughness of the night with that gentle only morning offers. The new day never shows up without its medicine of tender mercy and a.m. slang. Fight to be grateful always, it's the posture the morning begs of us. RW

We found a trail to trek over in the Santa Monica Mountains. It was the trail that began by the big, empty water tank. This place was quite desolate. It was about .7 miles up the mountain. Not too far but pretty steep. We broke a sweat but got to the top where we were greeted by a circling hawk. It climbed upward and upward until it disappeared into the blue. There were plenty of American crows playing tag with each other. The only sound was the steady, low hum of the Interstate 5 way off in the distance. It was nice up there. RW