FRIDAY 12:00pm

Corte Madera. For the past week that name was a mere passive image loafing around in the back closets of my mind. Now it was up close and personal and nothing near what I expected. Like Sauselito, the town was quiet and human traffic was limited to the friendly neighbor waving or the occasional bombshell taking her ass for a run. Unlike Sauselito there was no mysterious bay lapping at the rocky shore. Actually there was no real shore at all. It was just a regular town as most regular towns go.

I guess I had built up the town in my head so much and had struggled so hard to get there that anything less than a crystal palace would disappoint. What was I expecting? A welcoming party? With fireworks? Maybe a little one for my troubles. But I wasn’t there to praise the town. I was there for Tim Sparrows, poet extraordinaire. The man who bent words with an ink dipped quail feather. The man who prayed to the page, bled starlight and could probably give Dionysus a run for his money in a wine guzzling contest. Yes, Tim Sparrows, only two footprints away.