We stop for brunch in Sonoma. There is a good breakfast place on the square, good but pricey.

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     The fog is gone, as predicted, though predicting the weather is no great feat here. It's almost always sunny by late morning, blue skies and distant hills to be counted upon as givens. The sun is strong.

     We stroll the square after eating, hand in hand. We buy ginger candy for Colin's grandfather, his one indulgence.

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     We drive. The air is clear and fine, no smoke, no fires. The vineyard comes into view, the hills of vines, the chateau (Colin's grandfather would snap at me for that word), the out-buildings, the visitors' cars parked in the graveled lot. We drive around to the back and park.

~

     The sun feels more than good. It feels medicinal. A glass of chablis eases the tension of the drive, the ache of the cubicle, the doubts which never quite dissipate.

    Colin joins us, all comfy and slouchy on a deck chair, booted feet stretched out a country mile, his face to the sun, ubiquitous red bandana holding those dirty-blonde tresses out of those pale blue eyes, his jeans scruffy, hands rough-scrubbed, what's that Dylan line—his clothes are dirty but his hands are clean, or is it the other way around?

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    Marcy comes, and evening. We go dancing, and finally, finally, finally she and Colin do what seemed to be so inevitable.  You can hear the click from across the room. 

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     In bed, the room spinning a little from drink and excitement, Marketa is asleep. I think of a friend who paints and writes, and bites. The room spins her and others into a whirl until I have to get up. 

    The moon, full a few nights ago, is waning. Still bright. Bright white. I see my shadow. A moon shadow. I'm being followed by a . . . 

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     I hear a coyote, the joker, Kokopelli.

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     We spend the day gallivanting about the countryside, a final drink on the patio then home.   

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     Outside, and across the street, I see remnants of last summer's sparrow's nest, a few wisps of grass in the V of the CVS sign. I wonder where they found grass in this cityscape. I turn they into we, and wonder how we found a home in this cityscape.

     How we found each other.

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     In bed I say, Marketa . . . 

     Hmm,  she says, almost asleep, but i fall asleep myself before I form the words.