This morning, fog. A street with a row of streetlights,
a pyramid of light under each, like the image of the
great pyramid with a glowing eye at the peak. A row of them. A street lined with pyramids. Feeling both instantaneous
and ancient.

The sky, the fog not so thick above, revealing wispy
cloud shapes, like delicate rose petals,
gently changing hues.

Underneath, instead of the hard, shiny world of my immediate worries, I walked in the world of ghosts. Ghosts of those who came before, when this was just a beautiful place, not yet a city. Ghosts of those who made it a city. And so many ghosts of me, of my brother, phantoms of my childhood and my teen years and twenties. And of other people I cared about also, now scattered or gone.

In those pyramids of light, I intersected with their paths, missing them in time, but just barely, somehow.

It made me a little sad, but that is part of softening, too.

(words: S. Wing, Florida; picture: D. Lang, Germany)

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