The silver filigree veins of the brooch on the black lapel
of the woollen coat of the woman standing at the red light remind him of
satellite photographs of river deltas sparkling in the sun, but they he she
they must walk.
The pamphlet for the pancake place handed out by chattery
teens all play and watchfulness is scrunched up and scurrying away from the
wind tunnel of the law-abiding street named after an obscurely Victorian empire
builder.
The little flags that signalled summer and kept their
nations alive above the fray are sludge in gutters, losing the forms that are
the form of the tree today, the repetitions of those little flags barely a
thought beneath the bark.
The portable cladding, layer over layer, seam against seam,
rivet beside rivet, ascends each side of the skyscraper, light shifting the
shading like a precious jewel, whether in cloud or bleak sunlight, except there
seems to be a loose one.
Commuters on the viaduct turn the next page to find she
has chosen a new life one she could only have now, while the judge
two-dimensional in his one page summation found him guilty as charged, and
other stories seen from both sides.
On unseen walls of a side-lane lot in the midst of the
commercial towers the infomercial district of the city of closed-off vistas,
the broadsheet posters of circus nightclubs and egomania rock bands wrinkle
with the rains.
The spreading plane trees outside the casino are bare as
their root systems down in the Birrarung earth, yet at the ends of a few
east-end branches flutter the last of the big brown signs of life, about to
blow into the river at the next insistent breeze.
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