Easter 2005
In years past, i.e., the last two, I’ve done something creative as my act of commemorating the significance of Easter Sunday. Last year, I wrote a song, and two years ago I wrote two stories (published betterly here). This year, I did not have it in me to do anything so wonderful. Instead, I rode up to Russian Ridge with a group of friends and saw the sunrise atop a green wind-blasted hill, where we could survey the whole bay below. From that height, the peninsula looked clean and fresh and sinless, full of hope and potential. The Dumbarton bridge appeared ghostly and beautiful, a thin testament to the humble works of man–much different than the overbearing, ugly, crowded aspect it has up close during the day. ...