Here we are living in bliss on the “D” type exact epicenter of the San Andreas Fault’s apocalyptic Richter earthquake risk. Westridge redwoods almost as ancient as the ancientest dinosaur from the Triassic era nearly a quarter of a billion years ago. Grandest tallest oldest trees ever, they are just beginning to be threatened by Silicon Valley shiny objects’ air pollution. When Ronald Reagan was President, my boy transplanted a few dull toy sprigs by the shady west side of our small cabin. For now their majesty dwarfs this A-frame, though on the east there’s wide-open space past wild oak and Japanese maples. The next entrepreneurial probable gazillionaire owner of the lawless unfenced no-lawn rustic structure will start upgrading it. My short squat family lives an easy life in hardscrabble gorge gardens at the bottom of a forest saucer, but gazes up at stars. Peering toward the not quite yet set sun in parallel blazing orange chez lounges, we babble ourselves into a twilight muddle. She has been with me forever, is the mother of above son plus both daughters — then became Bubbe to one and still counting. The two of us, smoked-flirted more than enough, stare over a nook of flowering angelicas before a crook lying on the skyline. I fall in love with a gloveful of some emerald fronds looking halfway like such very delicate needles bobbing in the wind. A pair of red robins, three fluorescent squirrels, quivering Peter cottontail, a five-pointed buck shield the sliver of new moon. Shimmering flora and fauna trigger timeframes that don’t seem to notice my pale chloroformed glop which nests here a lot. If ecojustice isn’t much better supported, none of these glories will be around for Spring generations of offspring offshoots.