Until June

Something left as I sat on the 15 to Thurman. While crossing the river, it squirmed out the seat and spilled out the doors, dropped several stories into the Willamette. The departure began as a slow leak, invisible, vague bits drifting into the magic hour. Against a chain link fence, before the ivy bricks, after the buzzing stairs, a yellow wall waned against a weakening blue sky. In the violet gradations passed an nonviolent sensation, an unfelt gust, indiscernible wave. When the street lamps yawned on, gradually became all at once. Walls went up while the ground fell out. And now this void is impenetrable. Except this brisk walk past the black coat, the "stay safe" from the rough one - or was it "keep peace"? Rattling doors, back on the glass. I tried to hear the pain joy of Millennium park in the Portland shade. These days are a midnight and tomorrow could be today - while waiting we talked of stopping time with shutter speeds, neutral density filters cutting down the daylight. Dawn will come someday soon, gradually a glow kissing the sunward leaves and all at once a thrown curtain blanketing the horizon. In the early hours, shadows become sharp to divide the waking from the sleeping. Eyes blink in time to the flapping wings of morning birds, becoming accustomed to the coming day after a night which passed gradually, and then all at once.

- Portland