6:30: Bacon frying on Laguna Boulevard.
The big flashy bird dives low over my head.
Maybe those tufts of white hair sticking out of a lime-dyed Icelandic head wrap is a snack, he says to himself. A white mouse in a nest of spring green grass.
Sorry bird, it’s just me.
A cyclist says ‘passing on your left’ as he passes on my left.