On the train to Perrache, the sky is on fire this morning.
the buildings, empty stodgy warehouses, still steep in matinal blues but
on the horizon two streaks of purple clouds,
pink bellies ablaze with light, struggle against the rapidly rising dawn.
then the dark aisles of tunnels made only for this running train sweep us away into the bowels of the city, swallowed whole to the click clack click clack click clack
expelled several hundred meters later,
delicate half budding trees point lovely skeletal frames towards heaven
black lace against early morning seashell blue
as a herd of five cranes. industrial ones. likewise raise an uncanny resemblance to nature’s lace, black against the unyielding flames of