The soft air of spring sends clouds scuttling to faraway scarecrows to leave the roads
clear from rain, Threadbare stairwells rise at roadsides and beckon us to climb, but
I have seen the futility of such journeys and the vacuums that lie beneath. We stop
at noon to watch an army of silent movie stars march into battle, bowler hatted,
awkward and likely to slip on banana peels.