I would like to tell you, about the old man in the beige business coat who peered into the rain streaked window of the coffee house with both hands, and the mural on the wall of a man on top of the world, smiling and playing the banjo, and how two people literally walked in from my past as I sat in the hostel next to a miniature guitar, people who I worked on an organic vineyard with, who have a winery now, tasting room, live music on Saturday’s, “we have lots of room to put you up if you come”—and the way a woman stuffs a letter into the blue mailbox on alder street and darts away: how can mail get to anyone with such rushed untenderness? I would like to tell you about the way the red crisscrossed sidewalk bricks pulse under you, and how the bikes have feathers, wings, dream catchers, art in the spokes; there are labor disputes on the streets and ballot boxes in the squares and I got you a gift to turn your husband on with: a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, and how at the Pan nightclub people fell asleep or got drunk in old theater chairs against the wall to soft cutsey pop lullabies, balloons attached to beer bottles called Session, name tags with sexual innuendos on them, all the bearded boys the same person, all the girls the same owl, the old man peering in my father searching for me: I am right here. “It’s all because of you,” he joked, why the wine is so intoxicating, the vines so strong on the canyon side the grapes so delicious