Southeast Santa Monica, 1981

Walk up 33rd Street toward Pearl. The sky is blue water. Trees are short. Birds drink the air and the sound of their drinking is singing and their flying is swimming. The street is wide and I wait for it to buckle from the shifting of the ocean floor. At one spot the sidewalk has already popped up. An old gentleman in a light blue hat greets me every day. We speak words but I don’t remember them, only his grace and dignity until I realize he’s a friendly old fish and there were never any words, just bubbles.