coyote hills

The wind is blowing, it's cold for March but it is beautiful where I am. The San Francisco skyline gleams white and Oakland's skyline just across the water also . These little hills on the edge of the bay to the southeats give one a panoramic view of the entire bay. Sometime's I come up here and this little world seems so small, even with the several million souls that live around the perimeter of this body of water.
It's nice to be somwhere where there are no crowds. This early in the morning there are only a couple of people out walking the trails in the wind. A red tail hawk hovers nearby, facing the wind it floats up and down, buffeted at the edge of the hill, going nowhere, just floating. The fields below are yellow with mustard, brown with winter's dead vegetation, and lush green with new spring's growth. And alongside these fields, the deep ultramarine blue of the bay ripples into the base of these little hills. From here the sun rises over Mission Peak to the east, low clouds hovering near the mountain, floating in from the Pacific to the west, and as they travel eastward the sun shines brighlty through them, illuminating each cloud that passes bewtween me and it brightly. Like an eclipse of sorts I can see the white disk in the center, the face of the sun, the wisps of vapor like beating wings moving rapidly along. I imagine an Ohlone sitting here, contemplating this same view all around himself, a great circle the horizon, devoid of the works of modern man. What were his thoughts on tha day? Did he consider the origin of all that surrounded him? Or wonder where he would go when his soul departed? Or did he merely consider his next meal? He could scout the area for food sources easily from here, the deer and rabbits that inhabited this place were likely prey for him. But I have to move on, back to the present reality, my coffee has gone cold and I must reurn to the modern world for awhile, til my next visit to this place.