– Baja in late February –
“Do not come home!”
our neighbor wrote and attached this picture of our far away house:
So we gladly look around in our paradise and feel the sun on our skin. The southerlies have started by now, bringing warm, slightly moist air in. The birds are noisy in the mornings. We are getting restless too; but there is still snow even in southern California.
* * *
Not a drop of rain this year! The Baja is groaning. The drought is not at all unusual but tough. On the coast, at the edge of permanent water the desert is pleasant.
Nature makes these funny things. Pounding water waves have gnawed on this rock for eons. Imagine when it finally falls: A big bang for a human who happens to be the witness; an insignificant step in the timeless, ordinary process of geological erosion.
The bone-dry Giganta in the background
* * * * * * *
I don’t know what this is. They float in the water. As they are completely transparent they are pretty much invisible. You only see them outside of the water when they roll around in the surf on the sand. As they are extremely slippery and soft it’s almost impossible to pick them up and handle them.
* * *
I found and liked this somewhat mysterious little poem-story:
by Michael Hettich
This girl I hardly knew, taller than I was
and skinny, who made us boys
puff ourselves up and show off how far
we could throw rocks, or how many times
we could skip stones across the choppy water;
this awkward kid I’d never really spoken to
asked me one afternoon to swim across the lake with her.
We were sitting on the dock. It was chilly, but I said
I would do it, though the other side was hazy – almost
out of sight – and it would take us until dark
to make it there and back. So we dove in and started off
slowly. As we swam, mostly breast stroke, she talked
about the lake, how old it was, what sorts of creatures
lived there now, how it had changed
over its lifetime, the depth of its ice
in winter, how the fish huddled down on the bottom
between the ice and mud. And then she asked me
what I knew, and I had to say, Nothing in particular.
And then, despite myself, I made up a story
About the stars: I heard myself singing a song
I made up as I sang, about constellations,
and soon she was singing with me. We reached
the middle of the lake, out of breath but singing,
and realized the other side was too far. We treaded
water there, then turned and headed back, quiet now.
We were tired. We climbed out and walked our separate ways
Home through the dusk light to our families
in silence. No goodbyes. And we never spoke again.
Klaus last days of Feb. 2011