From my art desk, I see straight out my window and into a wall. Fortunately, it’s a wall covered in year-round green ivy…but still, a wall.

One story above me, that wall becomes an iron fence on an old bridge. The iron is painted white, curving inward at the top towards the street. On a cloudy day like today, there isn’t much to look at but the ivy and that fence, so I imagine the people walking up there in twos and threes, occasionally hearing laughter or indistinguishable chatter. I keep thinking I’ll see someone looking down at me, but I won’t, because a line of bike share docks line the sidewalk on my side.

It’s nice that the wall is green, at least, layered like a million post-its on top of each other. The waterfall of leaves have a softness, pointing downward in different ways, like stamps from the same design. From my grey chair, I can’t see that far, down to where they look. And I don’t try. I keep looking up at the iron fence, waiting to see someone there.