The randomly dropped hot air balloons were first to disrupt the floating light particles of the new rising sun. Coffee beans was being ground below, while people trickled from their doors into the cold autumn concrete outside. I was gunning through the fog on the exiting highway, with my knife, billy, and a fresh pouch of ruby. The cows were waiting for me on the far side of the border, grazing with nothing else to do. The grass was alive, the boat lowered, campervan parked, and the fire warming the chair legs as coals smouldered into the afternoon. This collection is from the highway.