Yawning beyond into haze,
the bay from I-80 seems
littered with islands.
The water is still.
We filled the tank
at Dunnigan. Past the windmills
near Vallejo
light streams in
blinding the driver and me.
Hills, green, roll by.
We cut off a a red Corvette
driven by some heavyset guy --
his car has tail fins
and a popped trunk.
By the time the sun has sunk
before us, to the West
we are approaching
the exit. It took an hour.
Our best time yet.
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