The sun peeps over the horizon, grasse matinée, watching the sun rise from under the covers we begin our day.
The sun rises a little higher, testing the water one toe at a time, deciding to dress in brilliance. Hand in hand, as is our way, we wander the streets taking in the charm, the humor seasoned with a dash of tongue-in-cheek satire, Nantes’ hidden secrets.
Hangar à banane, les machines de l’île, our Sunday stroll. We savor the sights, the imagination burgeoning from the streets, bursting from the hearts of our fellow nantais. The trumpeting bellow of the beast, his slow, lumbering walk across the pavement. Skirting around the totem feet, scurrying back to town.
White light bouncing off the white stone of this white white city. Handsome women, virile men in tarnished bronze stare elegantly off into space seeing what isn’t there as the water shimmers down their shoulders, over their bodies. Winter offers a glittering cloak of white and chill; disrobed, robed.
Music for the eyes, for the ears, for the soul. The city is alive and dancing. Just for us.
Night falls, misty, damp. The lights on the island like flames blurred through tears, flames beckoning, drawing us closer. Night falls on my city and I bring its magic home with me as I crawl back into bed, snuggle under the covers, between the cool sheets. I close my eyes and wonder what tomorrow will bring, what sky will greet me in the morning when we draw the shutters open.
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