Chimes in the Smog

The city does its sunsets in orange smog, a color no committee would approve and no photographer can resist. I found a temple balcony where the eave's wind chimes hung against the burn, and stayed through the whole slow dissolve, the skyline going from architecture to rumor.

The chimes did their work at random, which is their doctrine: sound when moved, silence otherwise. Below, eight lanes negotiated the evening. The temple has watched worse centuries than rush hour.

In the last light I am only an outline at the rail, which felt right for the second-to-last evening of a long trip. By now the traveler is mostly silhouette anyway: shaped by the route, details worn smooth, headed home.