Feral Friday commute

My somewhat feral Friday morning routine—get up before the crack of dawn, watch the mist rising in Nicasio Valley, listen to the cows, like a cat I sneak out of the house before my cousin Dave gets home from working nights at United—he doesn’t know I’m crashing in Sean’s abandoned bedroom— it’s a race to beat the clock. At least I’m no longer on the couch, the house is coming apart at the seams— literally. Where I’ve been staying in Sebastopol is too far from my teaching job in Berkeley. I make tea in a flask, pack out all my things, pour myself into the car, after scraping off frost, navigate icy backroads, through Lucas Valley, pick up Wi-Fi at Big Rock, the only place I can get a signal on my iPad, check the mail and FB, wait for sunrise over San Pablo Bay (none today, only fog and rain), finish off my tea, then head down the hill to outsmart the madness of the freeway and the commute frenzy of the big cities across the bay. I do all this in order to teach kids poetry.