It’s been a glorious week of rains, cool days and nights, mysterious winds that blew all smog from the basins. Topanga Canyon was silent on a Thursday afternoon. No deer, no hawks or owls, no hikers on the trail save solitary us. It’s bone dry, and dead vegetation exposes the bones of the ridges to the horizon. But a breeze of peace strokes our faces as we watch the sunset bring down slowly its curtain. It’s the interregnum. A foul spirit has been purged from our land, and the new era is blank, with limitless room for dreaming, and nothing to dismay. We have been yearning for this for what feels like a lifetime.
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