If this were a hundred years ago some down-and-out folks would be fishing (they say some still do) as it has been described in books, and red Twilight would creep up on them from under the arches of the bridge and Night envelop its massive pillars and the little waves of the current by turning their reddish gold into slowly-moving blue and grey and black at last. But they don’t and the current doesn’t turn. To the point that the river and city life appear estranged. Possibly because their Inbox is jammed by 25,876 unread emails, passers-by only pierce the surface today with accidental looks down from the bridge above it, or at it directly from the banks. Some trees there have stayed from a hundred years ago, they know. Conversations go on on either embankment, but they never reach down into the water, their roots have to.
PaperShots 