Sleepy Sundays

The canal water was still, the swans like specks of white drifting slowly on its mirrored surface. The path is wet from fall rain and like an unfinished clay pot, awaiting an oven to reach its final firm texture. This is what it is like to wander through a sunday. Two books in my bag, listening to the occasional passing cars, distant sirens, and foreigners talking fantasy football, making my way through the streets. In Berlin a new sight is always around the corner; something new to be experienced and a hidden neighborhood to be discovered. I tread carefully on this city´s cobbled streets.

Above me and along the canal:lofts with their big windows. Some lit, others black and cold. Lives happen there. Families come, paint the walls, share laughter and tears. They share living and dying. Someone else takes their place and repeat. Every corner, every stickered lampost, and fall browned leaf is a poem waiting to happen. This is what it is like to wander through a Sunday.