Point Loma Ave

    Cresting a hill, I drive and look upwards. I see the criss-cross of power lines catch the early morning light against the backdrop of a blue sky. Streaks of chem trails from low flying planes slowly float down from the atmosphere and into our soil and cereal bowls. Morning air breaches my slightly cracked windows and streams over the features of my face. Skimming my ears and crawling up my nostrils. I squint in order to shield my eyeballs from any unnecessary buffeting. I reach the climax of the hill and for an instant, look out onto the city.
    A backdrop of Mexican mountains lazily rolls from east to west. They seem to meet the ocean and drop off as sheer cliffs into pastels of blue, green foam. Dazzling light bounces off the millions of windows that line the office buildings and skyscrapers that sit in tight knit arrays along the streets before me. The city looks like a single, shimmering diamond dropped into the purse of an old woman. As I begin my descent down the hill, my mind reaches back to ancient times and it ponders: "who lived here before me and my people? What did they look like? What did they smell like? Would they have liked me?"