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Thankful Friday

At 8 a.m. the bay is like glass, and those little finches, they look like happy little thumb-smudges of yellow paint, and the sun at 45 degrees shines through the scattered clouds in distinct rays of light that almost make you think, “shoot, maybe there is a god up there.” It’s completely silent except for the far-off hum of the freeway until suddenly a half-dozen birds break into a spirited call and response, and then it’s quiet again and the bay's still shining glassy silver-blue, but it’s time to walk through those tall doors and up the stairs and down the hall past the nappy green and grey fabric of cubicles, cubicles, cubicles and into my office for eight hours of meaningless work and so the question is… what happens to those three perfect minutes out by the water? how can they not be corroded away into nothingness by eight hours of tedium? the only answer I can come up with is that you have to pass them on to someone else, and so i'm giving them away to anyone who wants them, hoping they end up in a good home.

so picture them there on the curb for the taking -- i can't believe how many people walk by without noticing them, because they're really fucking beautiful -- and if they speak to you and you have room, scoop them up before it's too late.

(Originally posted on Facebook. And then I felt like a total traitor to PGD.)