…an early fall scramble on a little-used trail along the steep line of the white city funicular nature is slowly but certainly reclaiming; brushing against dry brown buckwheat, sagebrush, laurel, wild thyme and manzanita, dizzy with herb scents, drunk on testosterone; watching the sun drown in the distant ocean mist still powerful enough to brush the hills yellow ochre then blood orange, a few slim clouds pretending they’re going to cry a little but then just passing by; birds crowing, twittering, shrieking as they return to the nest for the night not paying too much mind to the clumsy and noisy intruder who stops often to catch his breath, before reaching the picnic tables at the summit, in the ballroom now reduced to its crumbling foundation, to savor a cup of hot tea in the chilling air that is finally letting go of summer; a sunset ramble.