Quiet hours at the shoreline
The western shore grows quiet in stages, each one marked by a different sound.
First the ferries become less frequent. Then the paths empty, leaving only the regular click of a bicycle freewheel somewhere beyond the trees.
At the waterline, small waves fold against the rock with enough space between them to hear a blackbird in the pines. The city remains visible across the bay, reduced to a pale line of windows.
Close to midnight the light is still present. It sits low in the north and turns the surface of the water from steel to a muted blue.