I could hear them from my desk, through the double-paned sealed windows
of the office building, above the white noise of its ventilation system. A
sound like clowns at a faraway party, like a parade of squeaky oxcarts. I
looked out the glass, and saw only the peach-colored dusk. Not until I was out
on Old Redwood Highway, pedaling home, did I hear them again. And then I saw.
Holy mother of God! The first V formation flew over, followed by
another… then another, and another. The Pearl Harbor attack of waterfowl! I pulled my bike to the curb a stared,
drop-jawed, while the first flock circled their approach, gliding now, wings
tilted and webbed feet dragging like flaps on a 747. As the geese crossed the
road on their final descent to the pond, it reminded me of how the big jets
pass over the freeways just before they touch down. But there was no roar of
turbines, no screech of tires… just the soft swish as their outstretched feet
slipped into the water, followed by the silent spread of ripples reflecting the
evening’s fading light.
How do we humans get over the mountain, when gravity keeps us on the
ground? That’s the problem Petaluma’s Pedestrian and Bicycle Advisory Committee
was again trying to solve, as we reviewed a proposal for a small subdivision
tucked in the hills between Petaluma High and the Victoria neighborhood. We
would recommend requiring the developer to install and maintain trails, but
where? One of our members had walked the property, and we had the plans from
the developer, but they lacked the bigger picture, the view from above.
Fortunately, I had the magic feather: a copy of the City’s new
Geographic Information System (GIS) on my laptop PC. I pulled up the aerial
photo of the site and its surroundings, complete with property lines and street
boundaries. From that perspective, we could see how continuing a trail all the
way across the northern property line would enable connection with the
developer-built trails planned for the neighboring Rockridge Pointe
subdivision. Thus, with the planned future path down to Dana Drive, people
would be able to travel from the high school direct to Putnam Park without
having to walk along any major streets. PBAC member Anne Cottrell prepared the
formal recommendation on her laptop, for emailing to the City Planner the next
day, while Keith Canevaro, Council Liaison to the Committee, prepared an email
to the City Traffic Engineer with our recommendation about crosswalks. It was
leading-edge government, flapping its digital wings.
That night, just before bedtime, I looked out the sliding glass door
into my garden. The moon was high and nearing full. The mist had thrown its
arms across the shoulders of the mountain, pulling them in close. It was
pulling on me, too. I slid the door open and stood for a moment on the step,
but the silky moist air drew me further into the garden, to drink it all in.
I walked up the path,
around the fountain, and stood under the snowbell tree, a fine black skeleton
against the clouds. I scooped some water from the fountain for a ritual tree
watering. As I was slowly pouring water into the soil, a meteor blazed across
the sky behind the branches, so slow and bright I could almost hear it. It
exploded brilliant blue-green, then winked back into darkness.
The next morning, the sun rose away across the Petaluma
Valley, casting tangerine and pink hues into the rippled nimbostratus. My
commute windbreaker was an extraordinarily bright yellow in the red-shifted
glow. As I started peddling down the street, Jimi Hendrix came to me, and we sang,
"...then we’ll watch the sunrise, from the bottom of the sea. But first,
are you experienced? Ah, have you ever been experienced? Well, I have.”
Something then caught the corner of my eye, and I looked back, and up. It was a
rainbow. A full half-hoop of rainbow was bright in the slate gray sky.
Right here, under the rainbow, we can fly.