The brink of perfection

How lucky I am, I think, as I drive in my car, sunroof open, warm and slightly fragrant air rushing inside, grabbing my hair and pulling it toward the roof, toward freedom. Straight ahead are the mountains, covered in snow, below an endless blue sky. It is a warm but comfortable 70 degrees, early February. I stand in my kitchen, preparing a dinner for my loved one, windows open, bees buzzing lazily around plants soon to bloom. Fountains tinkle sofly. I dig in the earth, still damp from the rain, soon to be parched and dry, but for today, this one, perfect day, everything has reached the brink of perfection.

The earth is a rich, dark black, it crumbles in my hands and smells faintly woody and fertile. The sun caresses my back, my hair swirls softly around my face, as I train vines, grown rampant in the late winter rain. I gently urge them back, toward trellis' already covered in leaves and about to bloom. Within days the entire area will burst to life and color and scent. The sun will scorch or extinguish and wither, but for now, it is on the brink of perfection.

I am perched now, on the back of a motorcycle, turning onto Pacific Coast Highway. Night will fall soon enough, but for now, my favorite time of day, the light is merely hinting at its eventual fade. The waves crash and the road opens ahead of us, mostly unoccupied. I feel the wind rushing around my face, smelling of salt and sage, water and land. It is clear, the sky blue and even, spreading to the horizon above the sparkling expanse of the sea. Boats dot the surface of the ocean, making tiny white lines of wake as they cross, lazily, in front of the sun. Catalina island is silhouetted as the sun begins to drop behind it. The sky turns orange and then pink. Soon it will be gone, taking its warmth slowly, and I will remember that it is still winter, no matter how warm the day may have been, but for now, it is on the brink of perfection.