Creek Running North

At 7:00 pm, there were dark, cold clouds over Pinole. As I passed the creek mouth, two Amtrak trains hurtled by — one eastbound, one west. Behind the trains, the dodder parasitizing the saltmarsh pickleweed glowed brilliant orange: one spot of light illuminated Sonoma on the far Bay shore.

At thirty-five per, it takes the passenger trains not more than half a minute to cross into and out of our little drainage, on their way to Sacramento or Reno or who knows how much farther east. Thirty seconds and they’re gone, this creek not more than a potentially tempting blur past the tinted glass.