River

          My inner alarm clock wakes me up at 5:30, even though I don't have to be up for another hour. Having finally hired a couple of new people, we're reverting to something resembling our pre-pandemic routine, which means I can sleep in a bit longer. The cat comes and curls up in my armpit, purring like mad. I manage to doze on and off until my actual alarm goes off. When I leave the apartment, the sky is gray instead of black. College kids hurry to class, buses cross the bridge over the rush of traffic on the freeway. It feels like everything is back to normal, although of course it's not. A woman sweeps the sidewalk in front of the Mexican consulate. The coffee shop on the corner is filled with customers. Fresh graffiti graces the side of the Plaid Pantry: "IDGAF," and below that, in a different hand and color, "I allready said sorry." As I pass the Candida Apartments, I look for the word RIVER, written in green on the yellow bricks. It's been there for months and I look at it every day. This morning it's gone; the river erased, as if it was never there. I look up, unable to get over how bright the sky is. What a difference an hour makes. If the clouds weren't so thick, the birds would be singing. I'd be singing with them.