This, this early morning, this early summer light, light that poured between the branches and washed the earth; a sacred painting of shapes that ripened and eroded. Filaments that flooded and scorched, yellow-veined light that emptied itself on scarred dirt. He could be standing anywhere in that moment, or nowhere; it was the febrile sway of a dance, a pantomime of seduction and reduction.
Cars in the background, music from the trees, it was all one thing, living in an impermanent photograph. And then the moment was gone. He was a kid walking down the street again. The decaying reek of the river returned him to homely mortality.