Copyright Jonathan Marcus 

	Tumbling down mountainsides like pebbly piano chords water unclimbs the sierra and sketches the way by sound, sketches the way by jeweled light in the deep steep woods.
	A bouquet of roses lights up the room like summertime finally the petals fall but the act of cleaning them up is instantly arrested by their perfect pastel array.
	When all the neighbors use air-conditioning you can open your doors and windows and music all the way loud and party like the wreck you are, smack in the front yard.
	The seashore lies a day or two away but sometimes here comes a thick mist of ravished brine, it hugs these streets and forests so single trees float alone like islands on a Chinese silkscreen.
	We toil in a warren of words, and the work – it can be noble. We touch at times the pulse of life a-throb with musky blood and motility but the sky, the sky is a gallery of aspirations.
	When the weather changes after swelling summer, the neighbor in the oldest stucco house is the first to throw the windows open and flood the streets with spine-stiffening opera.
	Well, I’m not too busy this afternoon. I think I’ll climb Mt. Everest and write a symphony there in thin twilight. A symphony about the tropics. What better place to hum deep green and pure heat?

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