The electric glow of the street lights fade into the blue evening fog. The broken path narrows and gradually leads away from the wires that hang precariously and endlessly above our heads.
A solitary tree stands detached in a quiet urban environment. Between the branches the cold night air teases small sounds out into the wet air; a whispering voice, bark creaking as the tree responds, unknowingly, to conditions of the landscape. Its leaves litter the cobblestones as the warm transient display of autumn passes. A voice calls, echoing among the low buildings. Several miles away, where nature hushes the city, a small river runs where the shallow water is pure and clean. A dark shape passes close by, its large wings disappearing into the darkness ahead. It heads in, back towards the blue glow. I love this place.
A small group sleeps on marble steps ahead, full of life but still. In goes one coin and then another, until I make my choice as the journey is completed. Bicycle baskets full of paper, spine and tentacle, their small sounds clicking, tapping, scraping. The floorboards are creaking. Small details shared. Between.