Water rippled over moss-covered stones, lending life to trailing fronds. Water under the bridge, David thought - water that washes and cleans - while the moon hung round and glowing above the tree tops, gazing down on him.
But stones were the gutter beside the road. Fronds were newspaper scraps with messages fading and forlorn. And treetops were a line cut low, unable to hide the bitter sodium lamps that blinded stars, anchoring apartment-block walls like cold prison bars.
He accosted her in the stairwell. “Emily?” And she smiled, because even the city knows life and trailing fronds of sweetly awakened love.