My wife and I took a nature walk on the southern slope of the Santa Monica Mountains shortly after a brush fire had ravaged the earth and turned the blackened branches of the laurel sumac trees into hands that clawed at the darkening sky. It was a scene right out of Dante's Inferno, tempered by the life that lay on the other side of the hill.
Man, this winter just keeps on giving. Turns out those record-setting, lower-than-normal temperatures we just suffered through are now going to cause higher-than-normal pollen counts starting this month.
There is a sweetness to the distance that intersects with time and necessity to call one to the open road. It comes from beyond the mountains and the far side of the widest rivers, just a whisper at first and then a summons that mimics the lure of the fictional island of World War II's Bali Hai that called the sailors to "Come to me, come to me ..."
I tried to avoid tying this post into the Royal Wedding but with all the fuss today, it was unavoidable. I won't talk about the dress or the magical carriage ride through the streets of London. What I did notice about the wedding were the eight beautiful maple trees lining the aisles of Westminster Abbey.
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