Teetering on the brink of drunk I lean my bike into the collection at the rail. The cold rain keeps my stumbling fingers from gaining purchase on my lock, but the smell of fried food is enough to get me through it. Fourteen stumbles into a line of chattering lights and post bar crowd kids. We're drooling into our raincoats.
Thirty minutes later I can see the night air again. The whorl of people and noise breaks falls in a wash behind me as the industrial park turns into a colored wave of bricks and rusting metal. Emptiness, and the gentle night water lapping against houseboats fills my eyes.
The camps along the river flicker with lighters flame and sigh every breath of found wine and desperation. I am a single point of wobbling light rushing past and sweating hops and crepes. I climb up into the sleeping houses and settle myself against the back porch and watch the fir climb slowly to the clouds.
