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The Way of All Flesh

I've started going to work over the spine of the mountains. I could take Bear Creek to 17 to 85, but the traffic flow is so unpredictable that it can take me anywhere between an hour and two hours.

On Monday as I drove over the mountains, a murder of crows dismantling a deer took flight as I came along, and I ended up driving through the lot of them. As I came around a corner, I could see the entire vista of the Silicon Valley, a giant bowl of gauzy steam.

Tuesday, just before the carcass of the deer, there appeared the body of a fox, its bushy tail sticking into the road like one of the infinite number of sticks and branches.

Today on Arastradero between the freeway and El Camino Real, the menagerie expanded to include not one but TWO dead raccoons, facing each other with outstretched claws and bared teeth, as though they had been in the middle of mortal combat before falling over where they stood. The fox tail is still in the road in the mountains above and the deer's spine and ribcage are now bare of flesh, presaging the fall I can feel in the air in the morning.

This is fall, the season of decline.