the baby and the bird

the sky crouched low and clouds breathed just behind my ear. liz and i took the train and bus. we missed our stop and the bus driver, fumbling with a cigarette and sandwich packaging, kicked us off in hampstead heath. turns out keats wrote ode to a nightingale against a tree that is still there, right up against the house that has been unintentionally cleaned and added onto. yesterday it was a pub where c.s. lewis and tolkien met every tuesday to talk about their books. it seems like i am almost always sticky with some kind of reverence in this city.
we couldn't take public transportation back. i was out of money. so we walked and followed the river to the punk markets. mohawks came up out of houseboats because it's sunday and all. it smelled like belgian waffles and ale. always asian spices. indian is listed under asian cuisine here.
we found primrose hill. there were even locals. chasing kids and dogs with kites. eyes watering in the wind. the threat of rain constant and almost a joke now. at some point, everyone looks to see the legs of the city stretching, the fingers of the thames unfurling, the skyscrapers glint like teeth just before we let the streets swallow us back down.

the baby and the bird

London, United Kingdom