TThe green hills are drying up, turning to the gold that California is known for. Summer has arrived with packs of bicyclists rolling through town, and on Sunday, the motorcyclists headed up to Port Costa for an afternoon of socializing and drinking (or drinking and socializing). 

We are here on the estuary, where (to paraphrase an eloquent title of a book of poems by Raymond Carver) 'water comes together with other water.' It's a small town of about 3,000, and yet very busy on weekends especially with pool parties, fish fry's, yard sales, and ice cream socials. I've yet to jump into many of these social activities, except for the once-a-month poetry readings at a deli.
    But I have been getting to know neighbors and find the friendly ones among the less-than-friendly. There's a myth about small towns I think, that people are inclined toward friendliness. I actually think urban centers tend to be more friendly. People live in smaller towns for several reasons: they are born to them and never venture beyond; they marry someone who was born to them and refuses to venture beyond; there's a job drawing them, but they aren't so sure; or, they seek more disengagement, more solitude than a larger city would impose. 
      For us, it is to be closer to natural surroundings and more quiet. After a busy life of being very social, I'm giving in to the introverted part of me that wants less social obligation and more down time to pursue writing projects, art, gardening, hiking on the nearby hills. And, yet, there is a transition, not wanting to give up the old activities, friends, social engagements implied by both of those. So, I drive more, the 17-miles or so into Berkeley, Oakland, across the bridges to Marin and San Francisco. 
    The difference is mostly in the coming-home experience. Turning off the freeway one exit early to take the back road through the hillside, slowing down with the brights on at night because a deer could jump across the road. Pacing myself downward to where waters come together with other waters . . .