At just the time before the day had ripened into night, when that wash of stony grey settles and subdues the breeze but the sun still loiters deep and seems to spread an ashen glow, I started for the city. I walked against the traffic as it ebbed like sap between the roots of buildings huddled densely and reflecting one another’s lights as if to mock the constellations they would drown.
There was something in the way they crowded. Subtle connotations of the landscapes caught beneath them were betrayed by how they clustered at the river’s bank like moss drinking up the water as it spreads.
Near that forest’s edge I hesitated, the buildings leaning over me eclipsing large and blockish portions of the sky. Within their silvered windows were reflections of the others, and in those still more reflections so that between them echoed seamlessly a timberland of silent glass. Despite the traffic quiet sighs seeped from chasms near the building tops almost inaudibly.
Cables slung like smiling limbs across the canopy, chirping with the amperage that fed the hungry trunks from which they grew.
At its edge the city’s denseness had a gravity its own, a humming panegyric for the landscape it burlesqued.
I moved into a canyon between the iron oaks and elms, where halogen lay darker shadows than the sun could ever shape, and I relished in the piquant air that pressed beneath the trees.