Marin is full of wildness that roughly and sometimes even violently abuts the intrusion of yuppie civilization. It's often a constant push-and-pull for primacy between these east/west, yin/yang forces.
My apartment is a fine example. It's located on a semi-wild hillside that is home to eucalyptus trees, oaks, wild fennel, miner's lettuce, and an assortment of native and non-native wildlife.
On good days, it's quite lovely to come home to. The bright yellow sourgrass smiles at me from the edges of the asphalt; I'll pick a sprig of fennel on the way down the steps just for the Dionysian pleasure of inhaling the licorice-tinged fragrance.
On bad days, the eucalyptus trees drip all manner of nastiness on my car, the odor of decaying dog poop overpowers that of the fennel, Caltrans comes by with chainsaws to prune the oak trees on what is (as I learned) technically their hillside, and the non-native wildlife primarily consists of dozens of feral cats that my neighbor feeds and allows to fornicate at their leisure on the steps to my front door.
This was one of those bad days.
Or to paraphrase what's going on only steps away from where I write, "Yeeoow-owh-owh."
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