I sleep under a eucalyptus tree on the Cal campus and wake to a sunrise seminar on the failure of the communal mission of John Winthrop’s New England. Birds squawk and flap—seagulls and grey jays—and the sky warms in the east a hazy gold. It’s already hot. A blue day, I’m sure.
Eighty and blue—and I’m sick of it. I need a storm. A change.
Colorado.
I will fly to Colorado.
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