California

It's in the wind, it's a special scent on the breeze, it tells you you are elsewhere, you are away. California. Remembering the first time you reached its shores and ran giddy to the Venice Beach water. As though California was made to be seen from that car window.

Palm trees sway, the sun deceiving you into thinking it's warm. Turn on the A/C, won't you? but it's still winter and the sun sets in fires and pinks before you are ready.

I had to go out to the car after dinner. Middle of a vineyard, not a smidgeon of light around. The sky was painted its blackest black, and there they were: a trillion bright stars, twinkling away as though they'd always been there, despite the light polluted urban nights, despite my ignorance of their existence. A coyote rustled in the olive grove.

We are not in Kansas, anymore.