Now it is so late that there is no sound over the city itself, even the birds are quiet. The city is a still-life, with yellow lights in straight lines down the sea coastal boulevards and yellow lights from certain windows, and the faint glow of the street on far off building faces, and all else in shadow and everything is still. Beyond the city the highway still hums and wheezes, sighs with tires flying, moans with trucks and busses, far off and mingling with the easy breathing of the Atlantic.
And Iím still here as usual.
The birds still come over, but far fewer than before, the raiders, the ones who choose the hours when life is upside down to do their hunting, or maybe theyíre still hungry, but anyway, just as I close my eyes they can be heard in a chorus sailing over this roof, and I canít keep writing about them because they wonít sleep and Iím so tired. But listen, they sound sometimes like dolphins and whales. Ever wonder why?