Often, going into work, I would look to them in the distance. One foggy day, I saw the sun rise over a foothill about two miles away. It was a perfect orb softened by the fog, and captured within, the silhouettes of three Douglas firs, branches outstretched in supplication. The birds greet us with loud, raucous cries as we draw close to the small island. They are mainly seagulls, some guillemots, dark and middle-sized, and a brown smaller one I don't recognize.
Guano splatters the rocks of the island like white paint.
I ask, shouting above the din. But if I'm to make a name for myself, California is the place to be. I've got a great idea for a script. About an Asian-American man and his wife, cultural differences, love, and all that. She looks at me, waiting for a response.