Sweet threesome with the tallest of the Nine Sisters, we scramble and skin knees shimmying up the knobby heights of Bishop’s Peak, hearts kathumping with the drop off on either side, California and her rolling hills laid out all around, so sweet in the sunset light we must launch off the top and just fly down the hill toward home. Dark night drive after a bellyfull at Docksiders, oysters in the back for tomorrow. Sunday’s football (we’re in America of course) and vineyard runs and office romps and another late night BBQ’d feast after a lazy lounge in the sunny patio swing. Night sky walk to end the weekend, catch minty stink bugs on the high dry dock and name the shapes in clouds, oak tree silhouettes. The moonlight makes pearls of us in the hot tub, diamonds of the sprinklers we run through later. And a sweet little flip flop love poem to end this.