Turner

The day began in a coffee shop on the corner of Broadway and Van Ness.

The waitress had not been in love with him, there was no newspaper to read, the sound system was set on Beatles 'classics' and the music made him sad.

He drank his coffee, thinking that everything important in his life had already happened thirty or forty years ago.

By the time he drove to the East Bay, it was 8:30 a.m.

He spent the day beside the bay, chasing sunshine and seeking secrets from wild birds, with high-acheiving well-read companionable people. Once in awhile he'd look up and see the tall and brilliant buildings, mostly dressed in white, of the city where he lived.

By evening, it was time to return to the city. A different light had taken over, the kind of light Turner must have loved. He'd seen his paintings once in London and after he'd seen them everything he saw looked like a Turner.