I am having a birthday week. Number fifty-six: sounds pretty advanced, eh? Well, is it ‘mature’ to relish one’s big day? I’d like to give a nod to my seemingly incurable immaturity, the secret of my spunk, while resolving for the twentieth year in a row
to put the top back on the toothpaste,
wash the dishes within half an hour,
and put things away
rather than permitting Mount Clothing to build up on the couch.
I got up on b.d. morning at 5, hustled up to Sky Oaks to see that lunar eclipse. Alice B. Totality. It was there. I had it to myself, though I could hear cars motoring up Bolinas Rd, doors slamming, and murmuring.
There is an upside down rabbit visible on the rusty-brown surface. I didn’t pack hot choc (nobody to impress). I didn’t howl. I simply sat next to my bike and stared, and was grateful for fifty six fun packed turns around the sun, nearly all of them spent hunting for moons.