This evening, the traffic on Mission Street could not drown Penderecki’s Concerto #2 for cello and orchestra or H. Schneidau’s ideas on pastoral poetry (from his Sacred discontent: discursive, opinionated, thought provoking). How easy it was to read about romantic or biblical notions of the desert, while feeling the cement under one’s feet and hearing the strange rhythms make sense of the surrounding folly. The western rim of the spreading fog, seen from the falafel place, was salmon and orange, moving colors that transformed a day of cares into something that could become graceful and be given sense later by better and more thoughtful mirrors than me.