As the wind weaves silent patterns of frothy surf between the concrete city shores, it mingles those walkers of the city night - who tread early morning asphalt paths seeking solace around the streetlights - forming a silent and solitary cadre of the street that traverses loneliness. One such walker breaks his peopled fast to answer a passing cabbie's question, (Twenty after two, mac,) the wind catches his eye with a silent surge of city surf. Squinting, his tears soften the scattered glare of streetlights into the spoked glory of a friendlier country night. He pauses, turns, and begins to look for similar stars hidden beneath the surface, needing only the compassion of tears to reveal themselves. The other walkers of the night continue their pursuit of answers as the wind blows one questioner nearer home.