The light filters through the shorn branches of trees half-reaching like arthritic fingers towards a horizon increasingly studded with the newly contructed homes of the affluent, the spears of light falling across the sidewalk, dappling the cement into a constant dance of innumerable silent forms moving to a rhythm contained in the wind. The murmurs of independent actions rumble across the valley which holds the city i live in, perpetrated by people i will never know or understand. Lives are lived. Gas meters fall. Leaves collect in the kinds of places things long dead collect. The virtuosity of a silent scene and a leaf leave me speechless.