The Airport Does Not Know Us

The airport gate has no number, but a flight arrives with no delay. A paper map of Europe is tucked into a corner, its outlines soft and warm like the edges of dreams. The air is calm. I walk away from it and watch as the season changes, a slow shift from green to cold. The map comes alive, the lines between places shifting and folding. I walk through a window in the wall and find myself standing on a high stone bridge above a city. The city below begins to fill with people who are not quite me.