Last night, past dusk, I walked to my car, parked on the Battery.
The shadows had lengthened enough in the South of Broad neighborhood that the color had bled out of everything, and the corridor was layered also with the scent of jasmine and men smoking cigars who were walking their dogs. Not many lights were on in houses, and Meeting Street felt like a dark tunnel of growing things above me.
The horizon opens up suddenly at White Point Gardens, and beyond it was the water, a calm night, still reflecting a bit of the green and more of the blue left by the setting sun. The moon and Venus were already out, and the trees were silhouettes like those of Clay Rice, perfect edges flat against a light background.
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