Yesterday on Metro, uncharacteristically bookless, I stare at the scenery passing by. The clouds were winter ones, thin, remote. So different from the fat summer cumulus. They reminded me of whitened  animal bones.

The light almost gone, me half asleep, wishing myself home in time to catch a walk in the brief dusk.

But before Vienna, a bonus — the sun, sinking fast, lights up the clouds, turns dross into gold.