The streets here are not lined with trees that twinkle and shimmer in the night air.
There are no neighborhood houses to ooh and ahh at.
Walking home at night, head thrust back, peering at a darkness only as deep as a million city lights allow, there is no blanket of stars to keep me warm.
But there is still Light here.
It streams in the windows and across the brow of a child.
It draws me into it's orb of warmth in the early morning,
sending shadows and illumination through all hours of the day.