Memory Feather
Memories float like feathers in the sky ~>>>Archive for Winter
Granville Island.Silent Whisper
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.
The Rockies Trip: Walking in the drizzle
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.
