No matter where you drive in the California Delta, Mt. Diablo watches over you. I see her when I leave for work, steady and serene to the southwest. As I cross the bridge at evening time, she spans the horizon to my right. The circle on which I live changes my perspective of her; from near, to far; from dim to bold. Her constant presence never flags, though the broad appearance of her countenance shimmers, shines, and shades in surreal relief as I drive through the twists and turns of life along the rivers.
This evening’s chill drifted through the open window as I turned on Jackson Slough, a rough sort of levee road between the highway and my own stretch of the San Joaquin. From habit I checked across the wide expanse towards Brentwood, a town across the Antioch Bridge but closer as the red-tailed hawk flies. There she rose, dark and serene, our eternal protectress, Mt. Diablo. I paused alongside an entryway to a vineyard, watching the skim of rain above the peak. Where I stood no rain had yet begun; but I could see it there, on the mountaintop, billowing clouds and a misty veil. I watched for a long minute. I lowered the window, raised the only camera at hand, my cell phone, and took four frames.
Later I studied the photographs, one blurry, two dark, and the last halfway decent for such a rudimentary eye. As darkness fell, and the air grew downright cold, I watched the skies for signs of a storm. The winds held quiet. Only the slight ripple of a whispered breeze fluttered the leaves of the overhead oak. I waited, listening to the call of a settling dove and the skitter of a small creature underfoot. After a few minutes, I drew the door closed, and went inside where a warm woolen shawl and a steaming cup of tea awaited me.
It’s the tenth day of the one-hundred and first month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
