the city in june smells of honeysuckle and smoke. i wander along bloomfield road, huddled under an umbrella, and sidestep the first of two shattered mirrors. i hop over a series of (increasing in size) muddy, murky puddles. there are blue stars, and spiral buds, petals in patterns, and i’m almost certain now that flowers have learnt a language larger than any of ours. rows of cars are stuck in traffic, and their passengers are losing patience, you can see it written on some of their faces. there are clouds of rising vapour, poppy petals tearing like tissue paper, and a blackbird sits atop a pile of red bricks. it watches everything, for a little time, all of us together, quickly tilts its head, as if sharply considering something, and then sets off, in quivering flight. a rare light, this afternoon, and it’s ever so beautiful.