tissue paper I flew into New York on wings as thin as tissue paper. From above, the city seemed to spread out like a majestic water reptile, its spiny back sticking out above the water, its metallic scales reflecting flashes of brilliant sunset. The sky was lit as if from within, vivid ochre and violet hanging like radiant dust in the air around me. I came in for a landing at the airport runway and folded my wings around me so they melted into my skin. The light was gone. If I looked up without really meaning to, I could catch a glimmer that might be a star. But the stars were skittish here, and before I could be sure of them they would disappear behind a streetlight or a passing siren. Stars are just that way: they're shy, never eager to be seen. In New York they don't get seen, hardly ever.
	location: Berkeley, California date: 1984 average rating: [not rated] your rating (0-10):