Is there anyone who watched the Leonid meteor shower this week who didn't long for a darker sky? Even here in Malibu, where we see stars at Starbucks and even bigger stars in the sky, the proliferation of security lights and landscape lighting and uplights to illuminate treetops at night, off all things, has made our ever-less-rural sky a lighter shade of pale.

From far away these blooms don't look like much, haphazard spots on a somewhat scraggly plant. Close up, though, I love the carnival colors, the waxy, witty shapes, real flowers riffing on fake flowers, showing how it should be done.

Meanwhile, here's something else we worry about when the winter winds get to blowing -- miles and miles of power lines amid the tinder-dry brush.

So we're on our morning walk, the dogs and I, and the birds are singing and sun is rising and the treetops are all lit up with that early light when some crows start cawing and cackling and sounding their alarm. And there it is, high on a eucalyptus branch, a hawk.

It's a cold, cold morning and he's waiting for the sun to warm his wings, to warm the air a bit so he can fly and glide and maybe catch a thermal. And there they are, the gathered crows, above and below and all around him, cawing.

But he sits and waits, ignores them utterly. The only move he makes is a head tilt in my direction as the camera shutter snaps. And one by one the crows grow bored, fly away, and the hawk is alone again, waiting to take flight at precisely the right moment.

It's the scores of sand volleyball courts standing empty.

Movie? What movie?

This is a favorite sign of mine in Palos Verdes, a warning that works on so many levels.

Still can't quite get used to Evinrude being gone so here's another photo of The Rudest One. That was a cranky magnificent cat.

This was just one flank of the fleet, which leaves you wondering -- what were they catching, and will there be any left?

More than a few of you who have been to the house and saw the remodel pix wrote to say you're confused by all the newness, disoriented, even, by how much has changed.

I'm pretty sure this photo isn't going to help you much.

Here's the 1973 mobile home bathroom before:

Such charm.

And here's during:

Intriguing, no?

And here's the new trio of double-hung windows, plus drywall. Ahhh.

Way, way up high in one of our canyons, right where the crumbling asphalt gives way to a tooth-jolting washboard of packed dirt, someone sprayed this warning on an open grate.

Seems to me this message could apply to any road or street or lane or grate or culvert anywhere and everywhere in L.A. because eventually, everything does drain to the sea.