The mountains are piled up with cloudbanks today. It’s like they’re all wearing wool hats. Sheepy wool hats, with the earflaps, the kind you tie under your chin.
It’s been raining, and the car park’s all shiny. The pavement as well. It’s like the road to Oz, but less yellow, more silvery-green. I caught some dude earlier, fixing his hair in a puddle.
Ever see something you want to remember, but you can’t take a picture? Like, right now, the sun’s going down. It’s sparkling through the limbs of a wet tree, and on the Dollarama sign. It looks like diamonds in the window at Cartier, but only ’cause it’s moving. Freeze it, and you’d get a tree and a dollar store and some threadbare old dog—there’s one of those too, but the magic’s not reaching it. It’s too far in the shadows.
Anyway, I’ve written it down, so, yeah. That was there. A bright tree tiara.
By the time you’re reading this, it’ll be gone.