Late afternoon carries its usual drift,
a few steps folding into the next crossing,
someone adjusting their bag as they pass,

a shopfront glow shifting

when the door swings wide.

Nothing announces itself,

yet the street feels tuned to a low register,
as if each small motion were part of a larger pattern
that doesn't need to be named to be felt.

You keep walking,
letting the rhythm of the footpath set the pace,
not chasing anything,

just moving through a city that seems to breathe
in its own unhurried way,

a loose scrap skittering across the pavement once,

off‑timed, then gone.

.