As I walked down Peralta St, that gentle hoo-hoo-hoo stretched my steps from these littered streets across seas to the beaches and waterfalls of my beloved Hawai`i. Suddenly, I was again sitting at my desk, looking out onto Honolulu Harbor and then walking up on Roundtop, through avenues of bamboo, listening to forest birds harmonize with mourning doves. The concrete beneath my feet gave way to a mud trail embedded with hard kukui seeds and red cinders from the long silent volcano. Then, just as suddenly, I was lifted skyward and settled down at the edge of the cliff, looking down on Manoa Valley, past booming i'e i'e vines, to the University campus below. If I reached out my hand, I touched ripening strawberry guavas hanging over the trail. That the murmured song of a single bird could forge a bridge strong enough and flexible enough to take me across the sea amazed me, but I was grateful to walk ever so briefly on that trail and for that gentle hoo-hoo-hoo that took me there.
As church bells sounded, I walked happy, amused by my travelling brain. I strolled down to 7th St hoping to find the Revolution Café open and serving coffee but I was too early. The doors were shuttered, but the street alive and laughing with the morning and with the joy of the magnificent collaborative street mural that only grows increasingly more beautiful as time passes. A different kind of fruit, a different kind of song but just as sweet, just as strong.