The Passing of an Era by Mark Smith Woodmere on a Sunday morning in early autumn looks benign, like the aftermath of a wedding the night before.
Trash blows back and forth lazily.
Light slants across the street and bathes the scene in soft haze. The air is clean and full. There is time to look around. We park at The Fox and get out to stretch our legs. I saw Elvis Costello here last year, walked out into the oily summer night and across the street to our car, jockeyed for position to get out and get home.