20 minutes on Sunday

Stood on the dirt gravel ground deciphering gang tags on plywood boards squeezed between chain link and steel poles. Tarps covered the fence on the right of me, save for a sliver between fence and wooded wall offering the sight of rusted metal barrels emptied long ago.

This industrial wasteland hides friends in illegally converted warehouses and homeless men behind the concrete pillars against the 101. Only a shopping cart filled with random belongings parked near the gate hinted at the hidden minds with random thoughts.

I position myself in wait against one of the concrete pillars of this Downtown bridge looking up to the unreachable framework of shadows and golden support beams. Nothing speaks more kind words of Los Angeles than the low angle orange glow coming in from the South hand in hand with all 70 degrees of December.

The broken light bulbs and LA River warehouses welcomed her as she swung the wide and tattered gate open.

"What are you doing? Posing?"
I lie with a "No, not all."

Looking over the rooftops I smile. "I've forgotten how much I love the way it looks at this time of year. This Winter Light."

"Ah yes. It is nice"

I blab about the blue light of San Francisco as we drive off to Palms with the music up, windows down on the Santa Monica 10. Number four to the number three, then pause before strutting over to the inside lane at 75 mph, a quick glance at the LA skyline confirms that I could never move back.


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