Terminal Fog

Chairs folded.Doors closed.Bikes walked homethrough wet streets.One last songfrom an upstairs window.Then fog.The cranes disappear first.Tracks.Wires.The familiar corner.For a whilethere is no hidden city.No evidence.Nothing to follow.Then morning.A railing returns.A sign.A pole.One crowabove still water.Paint on somebody's hands.A bedroom window opens.Three notesof an unfinished song.Across the streetsomeone stops to listen.Then adds a fourth.The city has beenanswering itselfthe whole time.Not a machine beneath it.Something closerto its inner life.The fog lifts.Vancouver is ordinary again.Except nowordinary is astonishing.