Early November, wind brought leaves to every strange place.

Thursday afternoon, B-line dropped us off at 7th avenue. I saw the blank concrete wall on the other side of the road. It refused the sun. Above the roof, some holiday lights wrapped the leafless tree.

We stayed a while in the nearby galleries. Simple frames, single colour, and inexhaustible space trapped light in silence. A woman was staring at the street in a dim shore. She was middle age, immigrated decades ago from my home country. She was the only employee of the antique shop. “No Photograph,” I knew the answer.

Two blocks to a park, dry leaves covered the entire sidewalk. A jeep statue stopped in the forever green. The steel frame was unable to hold anything. The man and morning newspaper left long ago.

The giant piers extended as archways to the north. The bare branches stood strongly in the shadow while the shiny leaves were waving in its background. The girl ahead of me raised her arm to the east. Grass grew over the rotten wooden ties. At the corner, rail disappeared.

Large wooden strips tiled a little square at the end of Duranleau Street. A black coat man was playing an aged guitar. Some sparrows walked confidently around the spectators’ foot.

Stepping out of the exhibition building, we said goodbye to each other. Passing through a parking lot, two rows of maples opened a way in the middle. Hundreds of yellow leaves erased the concrete surface. A swing was still in the wind.

A while ago, I had a dream, sitting on a bus with friends. The destination was unknown.

In early 2004.

An afternoon in the late January,
After seeing the shining sun on the Granville Bridge,
On the way back,
Noticed some dew on the stone border,
Mixed with micro moss and black soil,
Glowing softly,
Ever since.

June second,
With a night anxiety,
And three maps in hands,
Crossed the stone border for the first time,
Where a man told me to follow the bridge path,
And a warmhearted lady spent ten minutes guiding me to the water park,
While the blue mist slowly disappeared.

That afternoon,
We walked a few miles to the west seashore,
A friend took a photo of me,
With the sky, the sea, the sand,
And a little smile.

Sunday October 15th
The questions of dissatisfaction were boiling again in my head
When half broken branches were trembling in the rain
And overnight puddle flooded the backyard door

I took the muggy bus
Watching the eyes scanning
From left to right and right to left
All the way to Stanley Park

The haze greeted the stone eyeballs
Breathing out the thick gas outside the steel worm
In no time

Passing by a bus stop
All people stood
Around the rusty benches

The floatplanes flew in the blank sky
In silence
While the raindrops fell on the polygon skies
On the top of the strangers
With the screaming sounds

Between the trees and water
The leaves
As a part of the pavement painting
Were beyond sorrow
Tearing in the vacuum

A tourist said hello
To the red maple
‘Beautiful, isn’t it’
‘Yeah’ I smiled
With weird excitement

In September, I said
I’d like to see the maples
Somewhere before the winter
Just like four years ago

But I was only waiting for the buses
Between school and home

Last week, sky rained
My jeans were too long to stay dry
Others seemed to ignore the water on their heads

Then I said
I wanted the sun to shine the leaves

October 29th, Wednesday
The sun shines again
I skipped all the classes
To watch leaves fall

Empty. After evenfall
Wild misses borderline
The black building stands

Still

Wind. From nowhere
Weed sinks insignificantly
Into air

Chill

Long. Light is near
The heads turn to left
To the orange railway

Faraway

White Blurry
Millions of lines are circling around
The roads mirror the sun
On the surface shadows are cut

Those places remember
Those days’ rain
Head hides behind the wall of glass
And forever wind passes

I stand alone
Beside maples and pines
A pale hair passes me by
Slowly under the clean sky

Two bare branches insert into the colorless sky
Where two eyes burn their faces black

One giant chimney breathes no more
The white name on the grey skin

In the reflection of stillness
Blurry light spot fades in

Along the mountain slope winding down to the vast valley, the bus stopped at a big town, where a lake ran through. The outside was raining in the gloomy blue. Soon under the instruction of the guide, the passengers disappeared behind the doors of neon streets. In a while I was glancing at the strangers and their dinner behind the hazy windows. But I said I didn’t need bread or cookies here.

In the end, the way led us to the lakeside. It was broad as a sea and long as a river. There was no bridge. My feet touched the sand and water, rough and pure. The drizzle smelled as fresh as the morning mist. Above the water the lamps were all lighted up for themselves. Walking on the dust of light, the night fell.

About four at sky edge
Paper clouds stick high above
Mountains retreat in blue
Silhouettes escape to every way
Till dots line on horizon

Morning dew dried long ago
Trails are all over
In the evenfall
Enormous empty piles up on plains
With weightless silence

The wind blows
Outside the windows

Beyond a series of blurry trails of a bridge railing
A river fades away quietly in the mist
While the elevation constantly changes
The railway repeatedly emerges from behind the stones
And hides into the pines

On every hill the aged carpets
Lay like they have never left
Now the blurry reflections are ignored
For every stranger staring at the wayside
There is a home

While the world moves
The wind blows