The Ordinary Times

North.

At first it was Seattle, and then it was Vancouver, but the rain was the same. Not drops and clouds, but thick, gray batting torn from the sky to the horizon. The car moved swiftly and quietly, understanding itself and the road. There were few changes, save for kilometers and the names of kings and queens rather than a man that denounced them.

A city of glass and steel, built vertically to challenge the mountains. At war with nature, who had her way with the city by sending in her coldest air to sit among the buildings and wait. It did not leave as it saw no need to.

The sun returned, and the wind moved the gray and the mountains showed themselves to the city, which yawned and rented bicycles.

At night, the old part of the city rolled over on a wet mattress and drifted into a deep, narcotic sleep as young men dressed up and played their instruments like Marc Bolan.

And in the morning, the gray returned, but the mountains were clearer than ever, peering down the long avenues.