The workmen elves were busy yesterday, stringing lights around the Airstream here in Paradise Cove.

My parents, in accordance with New York State law, moved to Florida after they retired and now live near this pond:

Where, if you get up early enough and sit quietly enough, you can see great blue herons:

And watch the clouds move across the water:

And watch enormous insects which were too gross to photograph (sorry) fight over these spikey white flowers.

I kept shooting pixs as our plane left LAX and I could hear the person next to me sigh -- what kind of rube needs to take photos out the window on a flight? One who flips for the steely gray color and mind-bending texture and, well, the sheer magic of clouds casting shadows on the Pacific.

So there.

Just one of the many warm and homey touches that await travelers in the United wing of LAX.

A persuasive argument in favor of the window seat.

I like a holiday where all the essential information is in the title.

I was at the Santa Monica farmer's market the other day and there it was, Malibu, a far-off misty coast, kind of like Brigadoon except without the singing and the dancing.

The other day four young hawks hovered above the bluff here, wheeling and screaming and hunting. There was something so strong and wild about them, utterly fearless and even arrogant, that when the friend who ID'd this photo as a red tail hawk said it's a juvenile, I thought well yes, of course.

Busy morning here in the Cove as the sun rose:

...and the moon set:

...and Maisie the Teacup Lab® waited for someone to throw the damned ball already.

We were in Bluffs Park the other day when this biplane buzzed the coast. I barely reached the camera in time to get even this not-so-hot shot, just enough to catch the shape of the thing as it sped north.

I ditched the dogs and took the camera to the bluff, the horizon all dark and moody, just me and a few flights of pelicans, who cruised the currents above. Here's the view toward downtown. You guys have a bit of drama going on:

Here's the view of Little Dume:

And here's a raft of pelicans, hunkered down for the duration:

Phone booths in a downtown hotel. So 20th century.

While reporting a story a few years back about the plight of the mountain lions in the Santa Monica mountains, a wildlife expert told me that wherever you see a mule deer, mountain lions aren't too far behind. Their favorite food, mule deer. Bar none. I think of that every time I see a deer, wonder how close by one of those amazing cougars might be.

I also think about the other thing one of the wildlife experts told me: Most people in Los Angeles have never seen a mountain lion, but the mountain lions have seen them.

Meanwhile, I love the the big ears on these little deer, who I came across while driving high in the hills at sunset yesterday. Stopped the car and o h s o v e r y s l o w l y moved toward them with the camera. Didn't want to spook them. They tolerated me.

I love the ocean backdrop here, love the deepening dusk, the way the deer is scratching his nose with his rear hoof.

Somewhere, a mountain lion loves them, too.

Though perhaps not clear at first glance, what you're seeing here is the result of long and arduous experimentation, of mathematical analysis of the dimensions of length, mass, time and acceleration and, via a living set of standards by which units were created and definitions modified it was concluded that at 9 a.m., this is the warmest spot in Paradise Cove.

What's the opposite of ADD? OCD? Because when it comes to birds I love, I've got it. Want to photograph them over and over. And do. (Sorry.) Like hummingbirds:

Which have their own chapter in the book I'm reading myself to sleep with these days, Birdology.

Last night I learned that a baby hummingbird is the size of bumblebee, has to eat every 20 minutes, weighs less than a single feather of a larger bird.

An Allen's hummingbird, when it's at the perigee of its mating dive, goes 60 miles per hour and pulls nine Gs. Not a bad way to impress the girls.

Hummingbird hearts beat 500 times a minute. They draw 250 breaths per minute. Their need for food is so great, they're ferocious in claiming territory.

Though when they have to, they'll grudgingly co-exist.

The Aztecs believed hummingbirds to be reincarnated warriors. Anyone who has hosted a feeder knows that's not necessarily wrong.

First off -- nice piece in the LA Times today about our friend and neighbor, Tom Shadyac, and his new documentary, "I Am".

In other news, that's not dawn's early light on the Cove Colony beach, but some sort of movie shoot. Cool effect.

Ditto for the white ship veiled in white fog which, even as I write this, is burning off beneath the morning sun.

I still miss the Pier View Diner. Before local zillionaire Larry Ellison bought it four years ago and promptly shut it down, it was Malibu's last divey restaurant and bar, with roadhouse food, cheap drinks and, in their halcyon days, Pam Anderson and Tommy Lee in heat.

Something new is in the works now, something exclusive and pricey, another step away from the original 'Bu. And because I've been sick for a week and not taking great pix, I'm leaving this snapshot, taken from the end of the Malibu pier, as an IOU.

We've been downsizing here on the blog, what with the tiny horses, tiny mushrooms and always, the tiny dog. Now here's a shot of the tiny hummingbird -- a rufous? -- who waited patiently for me to get a good shot before buzzing around my red flannel shirt, then flying away.

It seems Bonbon, one of the canyon's equine residents, has been getting more than his fair share of bon bons.

Kevin posted a video from an aviation enthusiast in Seattle who suggests that mystery missile was an LAX contrail. That's the first thing that popped into my mind, too, having seen so many of those over the years. Plus, when a missile does launch from Vandenberg Air Force Base, there's always this glittery, oily-looking ring in the sky, much more UFO-ish than the pink plume that's causing such a stir right now.

So here's a contrail from our archives (lit from beneath at dawn so the contrail is casting a shadow of itself on the clouds) to add to this life-and-death debate.

Up next -- is the Tea Party stuffing the Bristol Palin ballot box on DWTS? Stay tuned!

I suppose it was while racing down the street in my pajamas that I fully awoke, barefoot at 3 a.m., chasing the umbrella from the deck. It stayed just out of reach, bounced along the bluff where, mercifully, everyone else was asleep. (Or, on this morning's walk, simply too kind to say anything.) Back in bed, winds rocked the house and the cat, slightly freaked, sat at the window and watched.

So here's the beach at sunrise, where the gulls and crows and pelicans grounded by the winds tested their luck, tried to break free.

I lifted a box of books the other day and even as I did I thought hmmm, it's so heavy, this should be harder. Turns out it was way harder than it seemed -- I tore a muscle and before too long, couldn't move. Which is why yesterday's post was so abrupt succinct.

But I'm on drugs feeling better now, which is why this post is a meandering story with no end longer.

The point being, here in Paradise Cove we have a very low-tech lost and found:

See? Pink.

Everything about the tiny mushrooms that pop up here after it rains, from the fuzzy stems to the striped gills to the greener than green grass around them looks slightly psychedelic. Though I have to say, this remains my favorite photo (Tiny mushroom! Tiny Lab!) of the phenomenon.

Here's today's sunrise, suddenly an hour earlier:

And here's the sun just moments later, peeking over the clouds:

Speaking of which, check out the mushroom cloud to the west of us when, for almost an hour, I was the only person on earth on one of the earth's most beautiful beaches.

You never know what'll happen here in the Cove when someone buys a house. In this case, our new(ish) neighbor keeps up the custom of the previous owner and shares the fruit from his many trees. Merci!

There's another enormous yacht parked here in Malibu. In case you can't quite get a sense of its size, check out the stern, where the helicopter sits.

See? Big boat.

Depending on the season, this is the spot where we watch the sun rise, count the planes stacked up at LAX, wait for whales, check out the Cove's movie shoots and, when the crazy scary santana winds blow, watch the wildfires advance.

When a friend called to report a hawk sighting at the end of my street, I grabbed a camera and, at first, thought she meant this hawk, one of three circling my neighbor's house:

But she actually meant this one, perched in the eucalyptus, staring right back at me as I got the shot.

We have our share of, um, individualists here in Malibu.

What I wanted was a shot of this funny bird, bobbing and bathing in the spot where the creek meets the sea. What I got was Jake and Maisie and me, shadows in the morning light.