the second

At midnight I sent word to my soul sister in Boulder. Memories of Med, eating tapas, celebrating filtering. Experienced discipline for a 27k with workout. Climbed the groaning stairs, listening for the passionate mewl, to a spread of a french press, champagne and orange juice, cappuccino and sea salt fudge, and a skillet of potatoes and gooey centered eggs my gawd. Lolled reading. Marine Park tree climbing, tucking into the nook of the tree's cupped hand for more reading, deep into then, I was, Oryx & Crake, which I still find myself inhabiting Atwood's post-apocalyptic world. The sun brilliant, filtering in small speckled pockets between the foilage. I tilted my head to feel, it more deeply. We were a part of the farmers market amoeba admiring the string-pluck and lap-caresses of a multi-faceted band. I drove out to see mother and Poops and the cat gang for cake. Dressed in dress for oysters, fried & raw, for cioppino, for ipa and cocktails. Cousin & her man met us; we had margaritas in inconvenient mugs & got amped about the bio-illuminescence in the bay, so we walked the mile down the desolate dead factory row to end with a sit down on the shores edge, hoping. I remember giddy. I remember the walk into the dissipation of the second as welcoming.