Hillary had been out there, at the edge of sight. The small islands, Los Farallones, float nearer out of the mist, as if the continent were hunching over a grasshopper waiting for it to jump. From here, on the grassy prow of Pt. Reyes, I think I could fly there, into the oyster greyness, landing lightly as a kite handled by an expert child. Out there, birds gather in gabbling cities, and their human watchers are silent, writing in their snowy books, walking the bird islands in thick socks. For the birds, the islands are no more than a convenient anchor, a stone to push into the sky from. This is the place where the bunched string wraps itself in the child’s sweaty fist and pulls them heavenward.