big black cow

I took the long way around back from hiking the Johnson Ranch trails Wednesday, including one marked “Closed.” That “No” sign I stepped around, giggling and spreading my arms into the morning, honoring my punk bravery, until I saw way down an official vehicle parked on the private road right where the trail crosses, and turned around, all full of it, honoring my chickenshit.

My detour fetched me stark white egrets on both sides of the second-chance path – silent, intense measured prancing, noticing even me, the white stunning against the green and brown and blue; a hillside of black cows grazing far over by the 101.

Later, motorvating up that highway, early Springsteen crazy loud, the Camry’s six (cylinders) whispering over the rush of the open windows and Garden State rock and roll – “North. North, kid. Pack it up. Pack it all up. North.”

(Pssst – I’m falling apart in all the right ways.)

Steely Dan – “Drink your big black cow and get out of here.”