Dragonflies and bats veered gleefully and Miss Magee shivered in the evening air. I didn't wave, for she appeared distracted. It was charming if just a little small for her. Early this morning, I walked through the meadow. The starlings glittered, the chicory bloomed, and I suppose that more than the world is the hat of Miss Magee, trembling close about her wild eyebrows.
Ample clouds unfurl.
Barges, floating low beneath haphazard stacks of containerized cargo, trail behind them mere filaments of wake that swell, as our regrets swell, and make a sailboat rock. The island culls the eye, though, the pupil of the view, the largely floating pupa anything might crawl from. Surrounded by the Bay, its lush shrubs and red-brown turf curl like a patch of hair. It would slide seaward through the Golden Gate, but lost the golden key, as perhaps the island's one-time denizens forgot the Golden Rule. Pale celery- colored shoals lap against the island's skirt.