The raven hour

I don’t take a lot of pictures. It’s hard to portray the smell of dead leaves finding its way back into the city’s perfume after many days of the overpowering smell of sunlight. To portray the way the lukewarm breeze hits the trembling muscles of my thighs from such a long stroll by the Isar. To portray the vibrant palette of the landscape before me as I sit on a very carefully chosen tree trunk.

The sky is the same colour as the river’s pale rocks today. The water is a sinuous composition of it, and of  the fire-red sole from the other shore. It makes me wish I was able to sit at that exact same spot every day all year long and study how that painting evolves.

I don’t take these moments of beauty in picture because it would never do them justice. My canvas lies in words, anyway. Words help me remember sensations more than photographs.

Another highlight of the day was the observation of second-hand happiness : the transmission of little joys, from joined acts of playfulness to covert observations and smiles.

The glee on children’s faces as they chase dogs chasing kites.

The way that man watched his girlfriend as she watched a swan being fed.

My own state of serenity as I watch other loners like me observe these scenes, too.

The sun comes down as I head back. Cyclists turn their lights on. The trees are turning to black, and ravens seem to be produced out of them. They are flying everywhere now, and they create a new soundscape. It’s the raven hour.

Less reflections on the water makes the bed of the river gleam like the stones are glowing a faint light.

The kites are still flying high.

The swan is still begging for food.