The clouds unfold from the mountain creases. They drifted in silently during the night, I noticed them when I walked late last evening. It smells damp and fresh, the leaves scatter in front of me as though its autumn, but it isn't.There is moss beneath the pine trees trapped there by dampness encouraged by nurturing shade and a regular watering system. There is no sun yet and the air is chilly.
As I watch the mountains it seems as though I'm back home watching the table cloth drape over Table Mountain as the south easter blows. How easily smells and sounds transport us effortlessly back to where we once were. My mind drifts back and I am walking alongside the river, long grass clinging to my jeans, my shoes damp with early morning moisture. Another dog, a riverside..another regular path.
I've lived a lifetime since then, moved mountains, cried rivers, seen and lived in places I never thought I would. I'm still not quite sure if it's living a dream, or survival? I feel sometimes as though I have been swept up by life with very little say in the matter, choice is sometimes a cruel word. We have it but not much of it is free, we are bound by love and our hearts and our responsibilities, doing the right thing, and saying I have a choice not to accept this seems of little consequence.
The sun peeps through the heavy shade of the mimosa trees as I reach home, there is coffee waiting and a chance to wriggle my feet and warm my damp toes in the dubious warmth of a few sun speckles. Tomorrow we drive up to Pismo Beach to try out our new beach recliners and look for sand dollars, meet up with my sister and my nephews, and I shall laugh and get a little sunburnt and I wont think too much.
How ridiculous then that I yearn to be in the cold African winter with children pulling me in all directions, drinking tea with my daughter in her kitchen out of my grandmothers Royal Doulton tea cups.
which are in the nearby hills on the outskirts of Solvang.
and the moon rise 
over an almost dry river bed
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