Click: Valley

Click: true moments collected over the years. Stories too short for the stage.

I am riding my bicycle through a green valley, and up above me the city honks and howls.

Tides of traffic and towering skyscrapers.

Down here there’s just the wind, whistling past my ears and I am riding my bicycle thorugh a green valley, and the river keeps me company as the wheels turn past chicks and ducks and geese and joggers and dying alcoholics and children and dogs and strolling couples and a coughing man who’s lived every day twice.

Staring at the water.

And bikers racing up a steep hill and a camera-wielding hiker whispering, “There’s a DEER over there, a DEER,” and rollerbladers. Swaying back and forth in tandem as an old woman forages for edible greens.

I am riding my bicycle through a green valley, and I see a tattered blue sleeping bag. Lying on a cement ledge underneath a bridge. A bleached dome tent in the middle of a smattering of trees. A deep hole, a blanket inside, braced with weathered wood.

And that night, as I stand high above the city in my 36th floor apartment, at the window I watch the frozen white lights of the city and I can see small orange flickers in the dark.

The bridge. The tent. The hole. All the makeshift homes in the valley. Warmed by firelight.

Photo Bad Alley