A famous rock musican owns a chunk of land in a famous canyon here in Malibu. He tied up the development rights and unless something goes terribly wrong, this particular place will always be rural. There's no house on the property, just a shambling red barn. There's a patch of lawn where sometimes you see kids playing ball or a woman in a straw hat reading or a coyote sunning himself. This summer, someone planted a garden. Tomatoes and peppers, watermelon, rhubarb and corn, a big patch of sunflowers playing host to honey bees. Lately there's been this monarch butterfly hanging around, punch-drunk on pollen. It smells good there in the afternoon, sweet and loamy. The bee-sound gets inside your head, slows your thoughts, slows time until suddenly you've been there an hour, pressed beneath a shaft of sunlight like a specimen.