A series of awkward but heartfelt metaphors

It feels great to go out on patrol again.

I suit up early and hit the town around sunset, when the streets are clogged with buses and cars abandoning the city for the night. The salty November sky is full of the river-rush white noise of traffic.

Sharing the top of a midtown condo with some seagulls, I watch the sun set on Evergreen City. The skyscrapers glow orange in the last rays of daylight. Across The Bay, the twin towers of the half-completed suspension bridge shimmer against the burning Pacific horizon. Behind me, huge pink thunderheads rise above a foundation of smeared grey clouds that cling to the darkening earth. Gulls whirl above the city like white leaves in a fall storm.

And then, the sun slips below the distant sea, and the rich warm colors fade. The city, The Bay, and everything before me turns a steely palette of blues and greys. The towering cumulus clouds glow for a few minutes, and then they too cool and turn blue.

A crescent moon rises in the south as the lights of the city twinkle to life. I turn around on the roof, letting the salty breeze tug at my topcoat. The pulsing red beacons of the radio towers throb like metronomes or lighthouses or something over South Bend.

The gulls scream and cry, then wheel away to wherever seagulls go when it’s dark.

Ahh, my city. Evergreen City.

I feel like beating up some muggers or something.