WE DRIVE over these bridges without thinking they are bridges — just connectors passing over the arroyo seco – the “dry river” that isn’t always — particularly this time of year.
After the rains, I’ve noted of late, when passing beneath the bridges, that from late-afternoon to near dusk, a couple of en plein air painters — women out in floppy hats with their box easels and paints beneath what the locals refer to as the “suicide bridge.”
Under the span, particularly early morning and late afternoon, the hidden life along the Arroyo begins to appear — not just the runners and the painters and fauna (and the legendary “ghosts” who loop the paths) — but older men with rucksacks and watch caps who are rising or settling in to camp for the night.
And that light … so beautiful. I wait until the very last glimmer of it slides off, below the horizon.