In California, the oak moths hatched today. They fly in haphazard billows around the dusty leaves, hardly more tangible than the clouds that sit complacent on the horizon, awaiting their time. One lands on my arm as I walk the old, blind dog: I am charmed for a moment but soon forget her. Hours later, my brother points her out as I am doing the dishes, and there she is, a trail of six perfect tiny spheres behind her. When I try to gently dislodge her, she tumbles into the geraniums without even opening her wings.

Tomorrow I'm going to Tassajara for a few days, and I'll be in California for a few days more after that. The wide-open sky of unemployment had begun to feel claustrophobic, and there are still few friends for me in Vermont. I needed a break, needed to go somewhere where people would be excited to see me, needed home.

Plus, I got to surprise my dad, and nobody ever suprises my dad.