August 21, 2009
The blackberries are so soft and ripe that they leave the vine at the simplest touch. Only delicate handling keeps them intact on the way to our mouths, where they fall sweetly apart, staining our fingertips purple.
We are all here, and the talk is exciting and overlapping and intellectual. There are guitars and vocal harmonies, mussels and salt potatoes, miniature donkeys and a wild garden. The town is Freestone in Sonoma County, rolling vineyards and Redwoods, a tiny bakery, sheep and llamas, fog in the early morning that quickly burns away to a cloudless sky. There is a market that doubles as an inn and a post office. And a fire station and old water tower. And a road curving through it, nicely paved, somewhat belying the nature of this corner town, rural rustic little California.
This morning we wake slowly until someone starts singing Rise and Shine and we pile into a big bed with the dog, yawning and stretching. And then there are waffles. Now is sandwich making and then adventuring. This is good. Very, very good.
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I am in love with the way the light gently breaks into a million soft pieces, illuminating this leaf but not that one, falling across the path and blanketing only half of the clearing, dappling the stone wall, bringing a million lazy dust motes into and out of existence.
My hands are brown with the silt of the forest floor, sweat and dust darkening the creases of my palm.
Obie protects me from the bees.