In a part of San Francisco once known as the Outer Lands, where the boxed homes squeeze between others, all of them quite alike, striding in long rows of pastel dressed stucco and red tiled roofs. When the fog is in on the coast we get it first, deepest and longest, but today, a December day, it is clear in the way of winter skies. Twenty-six miles into ocean are the sea stack islands called “Farallones.” I can see all the way to this place, the “rocks out of the sea” which have inserted themselves sharply into the clear arced seam between the blues of sky and of ocean. It is a place I’ve never been. Just as somewhere between here and there, underneath all that unfathomable water, the San Andreas Fault tracks its long jagged juncture, a rifting of massive tectonic plates literally pulling things apart on its own secret clock.
Closer to home, I’ve got a family of pigeons that’s taken up roosting in the bathroom lightwell upstairs. Getting up to pee in the middle of the night I can hear them cooing and clucking, protecting their eggs, with beak silhouettes black against the frosted window glass, and their feathers in motion, beating against the neighbor’s walls, beating against mine.
Read Doug’s story ‘Sweet Spot’ here.