.15) November Crossing, Berkeley

I stand and wait for the light to change at University and San Pablo, one of those timeless corners. Amid sycamores and streetlamps, a hint of smoke in the darkening sky, a city bus disgorges passengers, momentarily obscuring my view of the sari shop across the street. Some of the people join me. The crosswalk fills: in the crowd, a kente pattern dress, a thick, dark-blue turban, workmen's flannel shirts, an elderly lady on crutches: the entire world seems to be here, waiting. The breeze blows more hints: the halal meat shop down the street, autumn chestnuts in New York, the playground at my boyhood school. The light changes and we cross, as the world is always crossing the precarious intersections of its destiny.