I am standing at my patio door, second floor of my building. The view is wonderful – the downtown shaking and alive across the river. I am staring out the window because I am tired and the view of the city gives me comfort. There’s a crumbling Dodge pickup out front – probably a half-step away from the wreckers. My neighbours may be smoking pot on their balcony. Seems to be a Sunday ritual for them. The house to the East has some yard lights out front and the little yellow lamps light up the crusty snow. I watched them move in last year. A man walks by in full winter regalia. It’s mid march and we’re still getting it in the jaw from old man winter. Down in the valley I see little red car lights trailing across the bridge. Brake lights go bold and then back to normal. The car flow is heavy for this late on a Sunday night. The 52 walks by and once again and her orange lights make me smile. These street rhythms add to my comfort. Across the river, smoke trails from the downtown scrapers. Aircraft beacons twinkle atop every building. My lids are so heavy that I can barely stare now. Last thing I see is a semi-truck gearing down and heaving up 105 street. I see his brake lights go heavy as I hit the sack.