Past the Round Pond. Say hello to Victoria. Watch the still-autumn freckles cling to the trees. The rays spear through the clouds.
Sip your celery juice, the first in weeks. Marvel at the gilded fence posts and marble columns. The consular flags, with a lazy wave in the breeze. Wonder why we can't all be behind the barricades, the closed doors, the elusive static on the radios.
Past Queensway, the market with the persimmons. The signs with pictures and languages -- too many smells for this early in the morning.
The girl with the cup, looking down, nowhere to go. She doesn't need a barricade.