Creek Running North

Tibouchinas are in bloom in Berkeley. Tibouchinas are always in bloom in Berkeley. When snow covers my father’s house in February and the plum trees bloom brilliant pink on Derby Street, or when Ohio pin oaks turn their crimson, or when the buckeyes wilt with summer and the hillside creeks run dry, the Tibouchinas wear their simple purple satin petals on red-rimmed velvet leaves.

Purple shards are scattered across the sidewalks. I walk a mile through petal-covered streets. Along the way are people heading home. Along the way, a hundred varied people heading home. A round, radiant woman — skin the color of baker’s chocolate — smiles brilliantly as I pass. She calls me “darling” and is carrying shopping bags. Young mothers shyly say “¡hola!” and push their strollers past, giggling. The playground shrieks.

An old man pauses at the base of a long set of front steps, asks if I have noticed the sky. It has been pale pink for an hour. Later, a pink band of sky will drape the silver Bay. The air is hung with jasmine scent. He pulls himself up the long concrete stairway, white leather belt with a gold buckle.

Old cars scrape slowly along Tenth Street. Shocks creak with each low speed bump. Bicycle kids circle in the intersections, hot-dogging before the tired commuters on San Pablo.