It wasn't until downloading the photo that I saw the hawk's ruffled feathers, bird seeking warmth just much as the photog, both of us shivering a bit here in the foothills of the Sandia (yes! New Mexico!) mountains.

This photo's from Christmas morning, sun just up, Pacific restless, sea lions bellowing by the bell bouy. And there, on the viewing platform, still fresh, roses.

They smelled so good.

Let's pretend that instead of the massive mastiff puppy, whose entire being (to say nothing of the truck bed) quivers with longing for her owner, who just stepped into Malibu Kitchen for some coffee, this photo is actually of that unremarkable parking sign.

And then let's stare at the puppy some more.

If you ever wonder which is the warmest, the coziest, the best spot in the house...

...simply follow the cat.

Prrrrrrrrrrr.

Maybe it's all this holiday eating but the whole time we were walking, I had the urge to take my cake spatula and smooth things out a bit.

Light so bright after the rain:

Puddles everywhere:

Giant coreopsis, green and happy:

Poppies and prickly pear too:

And out at sea, fading, the storm's ragged edge.

Mailed from Stockton, California to Brewer, Maine back in 1913, there's almost no sentiment in the message side. On the postcard side though, it's a California love letter.

Merry Christmas to you from here in Malibu!

There's Sunday caroling at the nativity scene in the center of town:

Christmas elves at Trader Joes:

One of my favorite ornaments:

And a mobile home ho ho ho to all:

Saturday's sunrise, Girl Scout's honor, looked exactly like this:

Walking down the hut road the other morning:

...and there's something dangling from a branch:

A nursery tag? But these trees have been here for decades. Get closer and no, not a nursery tag:

A private message, held up with a safety pin.

Light scraped in this morning, smoke and rust, the shortest day of the year.

We saw pelicans:

Saw winter lighting up downtown:

A second later, sunrise.

The hardest-working little birds on the beach.

There's a sculpture here at our new beach, up on rise above the sand. Can't quite tell which house it belongs with:

...though who it actually belongs to is pretty clear.

It's really quite striking.

If there was any doubt that the Tiny Labrador is A: A (very) good sport and B: Has an innate sense of dignity, here's proof...

Sitting, as requested, in front of the local Christmas tree:

And looking around for someone, anyone, to make the heartless human holding the camera stop, please please stop.

Out for a walk at low tide the other day when one of the rocks gave a shimmy.

And then it barked.

Sea lions, big and fat and happy, lolling about as the sun sank and the tide rolled in.

Somber skies for a somber day.

It's been years that we've been going to Treeland in Calabasas to pick out a living Christmas tree. Except for a sad stretch when there was an awful blight and we had to make do with white and Afghan pines, they sell Monterey pines, which are California natives.

Well, there are a few other trees for sale, some junipers and firs and even some redwoods, but mostly it's the lovely green and spice of the Monterey.

It's a family business so the same guy writes up your order each year, and the same woman takes your cash, and the guys who load your tree into the pickup have done that for you for close to two decades now.

It takes (some of us) an hour to pick a tree. There's the quick preliminary walk-through in which you think five or six of the pines might be perfect. Then you cruise and re-cruise the stock and one by one, the options shrink until there it is, The One.

And here's our guy this year, the tallest yet, as the ceilings in this new little house are so high:

Pretty. And it smells good, too.

Ooooh...

Ahhhh...

Sigh.

Emotionally set to hunker down for a day or two of rain, the showers last night felt like a cheat. Still, they gave us this (way too early) sea and sky:

We've been walking this little road lately, seeing the coast from a new spot.

As the guy who put that chair there (look closely, you'll find it) agrees -- not terrible.

Something very still about this sunrise, perhaps the colors, so low and slow to spread:

Or maybe the dolphin pod, barely swimming, almost drifting, fins like ripples in the waves:

That's Venus and a crescent moon caught in the trees:

See?

For a while, this guy had the best view:

Now, you do:

Of all the decorations that spring up this time of year, it's this pine on Kanan Road, with just a smattering of bulbs and garlands, that says the season has really started.

This past summer, as three heat waves baked away what was left of the little mountain lake (full disclosure: residents of states with year-round rainfall have been known to laugh and laugh at the thought that this is a lake) the heron abandoned his perch on the dock and instead whiled away the days in the treetops.

Now, after a weekend of rain, with the water level of the lake (hush) rising again, he has resumed his spot.

Unless you get too close with the camera, that is. (Yes, that's his right wingtip. And yes again, not even in focus.)

OK, not so hidden, this message.

It's almost a year later and honestly, it's shocking how much we miss him.

I remember back when Dave and I first began to drive through the canyon roads of the Santa Monica mountains. We'd twist and turn through wilderness, look down on hawks as they hovered, hear that peculiar echo made by silence and think, this is LA?

It is. Mulholland Highway, to be exact. Your land, and mine.

After three days of rain, a perfect moment of afternoon sun turned the lawn at Bluffs Park a shade of green that seemed, well, improbable.

Though this photo of a sycamore near the creek was supposed to be all about the autumn colors of the leaves, the vividly green algea (unedited, Girl Scout's honor) sort of steals the show.

Three days of rain and the channel is back...

Carved by the creek, which woke up in the storm.

Lots more kelp than usual...

Piled high on the beach...

A mosaic in the sand.

Out for a drive yesterday morning when, out of the corner of my eye, a dog on the hillside.

And then three dogs, and then five.

Coyotes.

They saw me right away and, rather than spook them by getting out of the car, I instead spooked them by trying to shoot out the window.

I never did get a shot of all five of them, or even a decent shot of any one of them, so here are some iffy shots of some of them, and really, in their somewhat fierce and decidedly elegant wildness, don't the subjects utterly transcent the photographer?

Oh, yes.

The cloud cover was a tiny bit too thick today for drama, but the silky, slippery-looking grays and blues more than made up for it.

Also, gold.

I love the irony that a car from the Southern Pacific Railroad, the very company that sought to despoil the Malibu coastline (and steal the Malibu Rancho in the process) only to be foiled by the quick thinking of Frederick RIndge, and the determination of his widow, May Rindge, sits on a bit of its thwarted route, for use as an office.