On Wednesdays I almost always miss the bus and wind up taking the express that comes along much later. I get off at the express stop before work, a couple of stops short. Sometimes I can see the next 22 in the distance and wait for it, but usually I wind up beating the feet past the towering cliffs of apartments that have replaced the little garden center, the row of furniture stores west of it, the fast-food dosa place, and the consignment car lot, and after that across the expressway. The creek still runs in its concrete channel east of where the garden center was; in the mornings I can see that the purple-flowered morning glory they planted still spills down the slope on that side, but of course that eerily beautiful South American spiky tree that flowered in November is gone. Walking across the bridge that carries El Camino over the creek, I've been hearing a noise like distant loudspeakers. As if there was some sporting event going on in the distance. I finally realized it must be frogs. Last night there was almost no sound. Stay safe, froggies.