Late in the summer, my brother and I rode out across the old Bonsall bridge. There the abandoned roadway floats above the California oaks that rise from the dry riverbed. On the far side, foxtail and wild yarrow grow up through cracks in the pavement, and in that particular hour they were caught in a halo of expiring light. The weeks since have passed quickly, turning those golden afternoons to violet dusks, cold and clear. Every now and again, the air has the scent of damp earth and wood smoke.