At Carpenters' Hall

In Old City, we watch the lightning bugs fly low over the dark grass. L points out that they all turn off at the same time, then turn back on in waves.

The old trees are all around. One is a Magritte tree, tall and black against a lit building. "We know how lucky we are," a friend kept saying at his wedding.

We listen to horses' hooves on butcher block roads. There's a warm breeze constant on my face, and tonight I am glad to live here.