The night sky over SFO is bejeweled with the landing lights of many jet planes on descent, all of them carefully lined up one by one in a precious strand suspended above the runway like a necklace of floating pearls.
Even with all my windows closed, I could still hear the great horned owl's territorial hoot last night. I listened, and he told me his name: "I am Jasper," he called out "sultan of dusk. The moon is my crown, the stars are my vast treasure."