City in January glints,
shades. The thousands of feet have gone elsewhere, their maze of amaze, bush
and beach. Walking’s more attentive, slower. Planned trees reside. Wiggly
Hockney cactus fills the tramstop frame: one suedehead sits in Yorkshire’s
California greenery, checks her screen with thumbs and fingers. It’s warming
up, the traffic is so prosaic. Hunting eyes of thousands are home. They have a
TV or pool, squares upon squares of irregular suburb. Eyes in the city roam, appraise.
The usual is peaceful, time to imagine a different city, one of visits and
reflection, before peakhour spikes again early February.
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