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...across the street, the train yard stands abandoned. The final train of the day left before 5, and now, in the quickly-rising dusk of quarter-to-six, the porters have all gone home. The wind whips more harshly here, on the bridge overpass.

Looking back across the bridge to the park, there is hardly a soul in sight. One or two business men heading home late, coat collars huddled around their necks, briefcases clutched tightly as they hurry to get away from the impending storm.

Sometimes I wish I was a videographer and I knew how to turn a scene like this into a suspenseful horror film. The vibe was just right:

Row upon row of empty, rusty chairs. Leaves scattering beneath the chairs, catching on the legs and gathering in piles. Trees creaking in the wind, storm clouds gathering and racing in turns. Two lonely-looking parks district employees mechanically adding more chairs to the long, arching rows facing the bare stage.

My new neighborhood has lovely old city charm.

"There is nothing stranger than truth." – Annie Leibovitz