Five o'clock. After a night of haze, the still-dark sky is at last clearing enough to reveal the lesser stars. Mars hangs low in the west, moving away once again. In the east, Orion is striding up from the deserts where dawn has already rendered him invisible. The silence here fails to hold my thoughts. Inside my head are restless distances of truck-laden highways, milking lights gleaming from dairy barns outside Sacramento, early buses grinding over the dark hills of San Francisco, flatbeds carrying pickers to the melon fields of the valley, rumbling trains laboring over Tehachapi Pass, cranes lifting containers onto ships at San Pedro, pots banging in the kitchens of hundreds of roadside restaurants from Redding to San Diego. I sense the whole of California stirring and heaving itself awake. I don't know why my mind has rejected the prevailing serenity and taken me on this imaginary journey. These images might be harbingers of restless dreams. I shall go out into the soft morning breeze and attempt to dispel them. This might help, too:
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