The clouds this evening are the deep gray that so long to be black, but the retreated sun just below the horizon lingers long enough to deny them.
The space, shrinking, between the clouds, is the gray of promise that the night will soon deny, and the birds who take over the preserve, chant their vespers, each in his or her own language, uncommon tongues singing their hymn punctured, punctuated by the flapping of wings, as the night encloses us in a cocoon that will carry us into the coming morning.
It is well into the Season When Thunder Sleeps and the crowds no longer snaked throughShinjukuPark where even the stones were in quiet hibernation. The sun fell quickly sucking away the light bringing the sleep of dreams and nightmares, of love and terror and despair. The night chant began for yet another night the intonation of the dancers flitting around the ceremonial pit dug into the street, all wearing the badge of the clan, the uniform and helmet of a true army of the road. They wore the tribal masks to ward off the dust and diesel. and performedtheYeibichaiy as their gods had directed, struggling to excise the demons and return harmony to the city.