In the Marina when it’s just dark enough to turn on your headlights and the sun has disappeared behind the buildings but hasn’t quite set – not really – sometimes for just one minute, the last bit of daylight will catch the clouds and turn them a bright salmon pink. The water is slowly going to bed too, turning a deep peacock blue but still light enough to reflect the clouds. Pink whisps float on the surface of the blue-green water, swirling and dancing and dissipating slowly at the edges like food coloring in a glass of tap water. Just for one minute. And then the sun slides down one millimeter farther, and the clouds go back to white, and the water turns navy and then black and it’s almost completely silent. Almost. The sailboats moored on the docks bob with the gentle swells, their ropes creaking and moaning with the strain. A seagull screams out, and the rest of the flock answer him but don’t move. The grey and white birds stay put, lined up perfectly on the edge of an empty boat slip like sparrows on a telephone wire. And then it’s dark, and everyone goes inside. And the Marina goes to sleep.

Reason number two why I love L.A.? Pink clouds reflecting into peacock blue water.