A line that carried out of site an evening on the wax extended just to where the sky was tinted ochre. From where I stood, the traffic made a thinning rank of single file embers lurching one by one, quitting demurely at the cresting landscape as if slipping off the world’s edge. And I’d have slipped away as well, softened like the nightfall did the jalousie of clouds that for an afternoon foreshadowed rain, except to linger in the ghostly dusk was just as well.
Stilted by its distance and the thickened air between us, the placid rustle of a city center rose and fell away, swinging pendulous and lazy in a quiet song of entropy that made the resting leaves unhinge. I felt a glance behind me, and I turned to look.
Opposite the city proper, where the sun had been a while gone, the air was of a violet-blue so deep its weight was hard to breathe. A couple stars had pierced it, and they fought against its viscous depth for height. I watched them for a moment, forgot the slow cacophony that seeped out from a mirror-polished landscape at my back. Sketched across the darker share of sky a jetstream took its leisure breaking up, discrete and rainless masses spread apart like words to make a sentence much too high to read. Another line to follow, to lose sight when my sight becomes so narrow I can hardly see.
When I turned back to the city all the traffic there was crawling, still. Something in the sounds it made–complacent from a distance, but arising nonetheless from angst–reflected something in myself.
I walked along an asphalt path that cut across the grass and heard the trees converse in whispers when the wind would swell. In a couple hours my flight would leave, and it’d be my sentence written over someone else’s night. Perhaps we’re all complacent in our little ways. Perhaps we all need lines at times to orient our travels.