Tamalpais Spring
The native brown path bends be endlessly fore me like an infinite serpent. On either side, a tightly woven carpet of winter’s afterbirth in shades of onlygreen, frosted with the downy death of last summer’s meadow. The foamy shoosh of waves a thousand feet below harmonizes with the wind whispering through the oaken hollow, begging me to be quiet and just listen to the sound of nothing, the deafening din of the absence of all that is not me but daily plays the part.