The phone rings, a little too late at night for politesse. And so the next day, I am driving north through this impossible, beautiful landscape, welcoming another soul to the Hotel California. There is something about this bluest of skies, this edge of a great continent, this air so sere you are no longer conscience of breathing, that unloosens people. I brought enough food for a few days, enough money for a few days, but I can't do much more than that.

Today the plants outside are making another small offering. The strawberries are coming out like debutantes, one at a time, dazzling and new. The runners are only a year old, so they are giving what they can. I am grateful for that, and for this hillside mooring in this strange place.