I dragged my mat out of the tent and under the pine tree. I picked up the fabric and held it in front of the patch-worked leaves and branches. The needle slid easily, continuing a line of unhurried dashes. This would be a shared decoration for our corner, marking boundaries and inviting, showing them delight.
The sun was heavy on top of my head in the day, but I sat transported by the stories of communities and struggle in past London, decades from this dry grass. We embodied a circle of unknown friends in a home far from home. The future spread out before us, a delta of indefinite possibilities.
The lanterns now glowed in the dark, the dark willow skeletons encased in a paper shell. The sound of voices rose into the air. Here was an exultation for joining together and an exodus from the common pains of injustice and imbalance. The shapes danced, pale in the spectacular night time, mirroring the brief comets.