pleasures

After work, after Starbucks, I headed home on North Harbor Drive. Quite suddenly, out from the left end of the windshield, I saw three planes taking off all at once from Lindbergh Field, San Diego’s International Airport. But, in a moment, they were only crows, lifting over the drive toward Spanish Landing. Stories out of this mind are often amazing.

Nearing the skyscrapers of the city, the road swings left and right along the harbor, and every single time I drive it the armada of moored sailboats directly before the county building appear as Chinese junks. Weird flags, decks piled with storage and tiny houses, multiple masts, all matter of junk, here and there skiffs for commuting to work. It never strikes me as wealth; more like easy living.

So, the sky is cerulean blue after the desparate rains – think Etta James and “At Last” in ‘Pleasantville’ – and the left and uphill lights favor the kid up through Little Italy and points southeast, as I turn hard left onto Albatross because I know there’s a magnificent dragon on a front lawn on the right.

And there is.