Broken scud racing across the horizon, beyond the powerlines and palms.
Milk clouds in the cold sky. Driving the ancient city. Driving the Los
Angeles hills through the quiet cold of a 3 a.m. The cold front has
driven through, the world twinkling, chillcheeked, redblotched. The sage
and cypress and olives are beaten down, flat and wet, coldwater dens of
coyotes above Coldwater Canyon.