Sitting on the patio of a café in January under blue sky and fir trees. Bulbs have pushed their stems up out of the ground and currently stand anywhere between 1 to 4 inches tall. The sound of a fog horn from the ferry , the songs of a few birds, and a distant and consent barking backs the cross-table conversations. Nobody knows anyone else at other tables but you would not know it if you had just walked by. Beyond the trees girls change their minds about their play and run off to find their bikes. On the other side of the fence and an outbuilding somebody pushes a grass cutter and the waitress brings a meal to the patio before the girls find their way to the café by bike.
A grandfather asks if this crowd is normal. “It is Saturday” the waitress responds. “It is always busy on Saturdays, except when the Seahawks play.” His grandson discusses how Mom is growing another baby and pushes his cinnamon roll to his grandmother and says “Taste how cinnamony mine is.”
Then everyone leaves and there is just enough time to notice the ticking of the heat lamps before an airplane turns its engine and taxi’s to the runway. The girls run back into the trees, the grass cutting must be complete, and suddenly we are alone with the chatter of birds.