California cypress spires, a starched pressed hard bleached landscape dotted with black oaks and palm trees and stands of eucalyptus. I had forgotten what a big hot windy bitch she is; it's all about velocity and sunshine. We drove south for ten hours the same way the birds migrate and the trains cross the mountains, up through the high wide lonesome land, monstrous Shasta's snow-covered facets rising from the range both monolithic and graceful, draped with pale clouds. Pelicans and terns and gulls glide white across the surface of Klamath Lake, hot springs, cattails waving in the wind. Perspective stretches away for miles and the wind blows hard.

Down down down we rode south, down into the dusty dry valley, the color of gold, deceptively cool in the evening. The sun went sinking into the distant hills, making the sky blush pink through the smog. My parents live near the wide river delta in a neighborhood with big trees and private yards. It gets hot and when I was a child we'd sometimes fry eggs on the road. The wind kicks up in the evening but dies down once the sun has set, and it was hushed and still when we rolled across the river just before midnight.

My folks had spent the day helping friends move into a new house, and they were as exhausted as we were from our long drive. We sat and drank whiskey and stargazed and yawned and discussed travel plans. Sleeping in the bed and in the room I had as a child always sparks some nostalgia; the world feels close and small and it seems odd to awaken and have a man slumbering beside me. I chased away a mockingbird warbling his song outside the open window at four in the morning. The next day we left our dogs with my parents, who were planning to stay home for the fireworks holiday, and headed south again.

More later.