Degrees

The smells return: of streets, of mulch, of garbage, of steel rails and sunshine. The tables come out, the chairs, the wine bottles and sunglasses. Birds go mad. We squeeze into the tiny restaurant on that street that we dreamed of all those years ago and New York is again that sweet, sparkling treasure I keep in my pocket for comfort. I come home tipsy, start packing bags and watch the minutes slip too quickly out of my grasp.

No matter.

The streets smell of summer. A hundred lifetimes lie waiting in the dawn.