Always the watchers

Again it is clear, again from down here the far people on Twin Peaks come, go, stand like small posts on the grassy knobs above the city, looking at the local world. Sometimes in clusters, mostly just a few, they drink the light, scan the mild ocean, turn past the blue headlands, the Gate, east across the city and the Bay, toward far Mt. Diablo, then near Mt. Davidson, and then around again. Now the hills flush orange. Now, it being sunset, the watchers stand very still a long time, darkening, close to each other.

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