The fog is slowly lifting
I feel it whispering to me

“two hours west”

Promises of a good morning with rich coffee
The Bay beckons to grand adventure
at The Treasure Island Flea.
Anticipation and glee fuel my drive through the valleys and passes
Wind farms and wildflower fields with loud proud poppies.

The Bridge is a beast
but the sight of water, cools my travel weary eyes.
It smells of secrets and such
wafting over and under cold metal structures.

Carnival colored tents of every shape and size
Demand my attention as I arrive
Where do I start?
What to do I touch?
Fancy food trucks with festive feasts
Musty dusty boxes full of scarves and laces and blouses with broken beads

That special tiny painting of a girl in a silly hat
I couldn’t possibly go home without that.

The DIY is strong in this place
Papier-mâché pigeon perched atop petrified bacon branches
You are not speaking to me

I walk to the bay and hum to the skyline
I always find the real treasure on this Island
The view

But those crimson crushed velvet Mary Jane’s with satin ribbons
had stories to tell of mad dancing days.
They need a new home.
“Be honest,” I ask the vendor, “Did your great, great grandmother really wear these?
I’ll take them.