homing bird

The road was a glowing array of red and orange orbs, burning themselves out of focus as a thousand slow-moving taillights dipped and surged with the flowing curvature of the freeway. At 7am, the sky was still a yawning expanse of blue and gray; a lonely, intimate hue, only made bearable by the legions of anonymous companions tersely huddled up against each other, the various tribes of this city amassed in the midst of some great exodus. Against this somber backdrop, the hot colours that crowded my view looked like the lanterns of some outdoor festival; they bobbed along and wandered about like distracted children at an evening fair, grilled meat skewered on sticks clutched tightly in their tiny fists, straying from stall to stall in excited amazement, trying to sample the sights and savour the lights with their enormous eyes.