Last night in a little corner of the world, in the original wallpaper original everything National Hotel, on the end of Broad Street before it falls off the precipice into Hwy. 20, we sat around and finished off a night. In the bar were so many musicians it was ridiculous, and after we made our way back to my apartment, crossing pine st. bridge under the moon, played piano and guitar and dusted off the keys in the process.

Todays leaves crackly underfoot, and the woodsmoke and warmth mingle in slanted light. Central valley’s fertile air blows up around, while mountain lakes sit still swarming with trout.