The night comes early, the clouds above the apocalyptic red of light pollution. It has just stopped raining, and an aura surrounds everything, leaving behind in the mist essences of light. The roads are melted watercolours where pedestrians are unwitting psychedelic participants. Soon it will snow, the roads slickening taut. The trees along this avenue are organic gantries, trembling in the November moan of the Northern wind; it is difficult to distinguish between the few birds that are left and the scraps of leaves clinging to the bark. A woman unfolds herself from her Monte Carlo and, hands laden with two large plastic bags, makes laboriously for a creek near the park. Her breath comes in spumes. She sets down paper plates and pours cat food, obscuring the almost luminous white paper circles. The sodium vapor lights buzz, cycling off, nearing expiration. The woman holds her coat against herself as she murmurs, backing away slowly. Her wards, a multiplicity of twin gems emerging from the brush, slink with wary trust. The night air is clear, and the noise of their pleasure moves easily in the air. The clouds draw away to unveil the actinic theater of stars, among which moves a lone satellite.