The tram. That’s something that wasn’t always there. The wet leaves squish underfoot as I gingerly step down the sidewalk, the sharp stones from the cracked and pitted surface digging into my feet. The sky is neatly cut in two, the swaying cables a hundred feet.
Years have passed here, the green bounty of the trees and bushes thriving in the crispness of the damp air. Away, down towards the river, this rich organic softness gives way to the hard lines of the glass towers. Hard edged. Towering below me. As if through their own conceit they must mask the forest, river and hills beyond.
Looking down at the crumbling cement, I laugh.