Yesterday, on San Bruno Mountain, I saw a million flowers - waves of violet ceanothus, yellow pepperings of buttercups, Wight's paintbrush, monkey flower, Johnny jump-up, and, pale and rare, a scattering of wallflowers. Miner's lettuce still put forth its tiny petals, while the manroot had already formed spiny cucumbers. Douglas's iris purpled some slopes, and the checker-bloom splashed on pink. So much else - even the alien eucalyptus - spread profuse hues on the cool mountain high over the peninsula's urban roofs. Newly seen, it flooded the eyes with color and delicate form. Silverspots flitted near us, and (though we weren't sure) mission blues. It was all news to me. Last night on TV they never mentioned it, talked instead of baseball trades, lines of traffic, and domestic arguments. Far below we saw a gathering of earth movers standing ready to carve at the mountain on Monday.