Finchley Road, Camden
As I walked through the park into town the other morning I passed a person practising. The person appeared to be practising. The movement of the person caught my eye from far away. Leaves still on the trees, low branches. A person dappled in leaf light shadows. Being leaf like, nearly falling to the ground, holding a balance, and letting go through the breath of misty air. On a colder morning I would see the air, my breath, as mist, swirling back into space and time of this space, around me, a presence, an aura, a sense of self. And this morning I see my shadow, moving around me, being left behind, cast on stone. And my shadow appears again, in a different light, maybe a different shadow. A leaf falls, I notice the shadow before the leaf, the leaf touches the ground as I walk on by. Another shadow catches my eye, fluttering. Moving through the morning light, stepping on stones, casting shadows, shadows all around from this made-up light. The street light ends. I fade into the light of day. A day begins this way. This walking, a short walk. In front of me now, two pages of notes, leaves, paper, trees, fibres, ink, lines, black, a trace, a trail, travailing across a white landscape of snow, or do I notice a touch of yellow in the leaf, on the page, in the paper, and imagine a desert, hot, dry, but still walking, still drawing lines. And the time says 08:00, so I go.