After six the canal path belongs to joggers and herons in alternating custody. I walk slow on purpose, letting faster bodies pass on the left with a nod that costs nothing.
Water colour today is algae green with office-tower reflections broken into shards. The shards move when breeze crosses the opening near the pedestrian bridge.
Cyclists ring bells that sound polite, not angry. I step aside onto grass that is slightly forbidden and slightly tolerated. Rules here live in glances from signage and actual behaviour.
Somewhere under the bridge a fish jumps — one clean arc — and three people miss it because they stare at phones. I write the arc anyway; proof of attention is the writing itself.
The path smells of cut grass and distant frying oil from a void deck event. Smell maps can be more accurate than street numbers when you navigate from memory.
I count bench slats: eleven on the longest bench, three replaced with lighter wood. Maintenance as palimpsest again — a theme this neighbourhood teaches without trying.
Runners breathe in sync with footfalls. I match my steps to a stranger for ten metres, then break away because intimacy without introduction feels wrong.
Light drops in measurable bands. First the railing shadows lengthen, then the water dulls, then the heron leaves without flapping drama. Evening is subtraction, not addition.
Children on scooters practice wobbles near the railing. Parents walk behind, half attentive, half chatting about school fees in voices that carry over water.
I stop where the path curves toward the park connector sign. From here you can see old flats and newer towers stacked vertically — timeline without debate.
The note closes when streetlamps click on — not all at once, a stagger like estate windows later tonight. Stagger feels honest; simultaneity feels staged.
Canal maintenance crews sometimes leave orange cones like punctuation at drain corners. Today there are none — the path reads clean, almost edited.
I pass a man fishing where signs discourage it. He ignores the sign and the logic of urban water equally. We exchange the nod of people who will not debate policy on a walk.
A drone buzzes overhead — not mine, not yours probably — mapping something for someone else. I keep eyes on the path. The canal belongs to walkers when office hours end.
Near the exit a vending machine hums cold air into warm evening. A student buys green tea and drinks half before reaching the bench. Youth still believes in finishing later.
Home smells like ginger from three doors down. I write reel 02 standing at the kitchen counter because motion helped the sentences arrive. Motion often does.
Tomorrow the canal colour may shift with cloud cover. I accept that variability. Reels are snapshots, not averages.
A maintenance truck idles on the service road — engine note steady, hazard lights pulsing. Workers ignore me; I ignore their work unless it changes the path.
Dinner waits at home: leftover soup reheated, rice already cooked. Walking writes hunger into the body faster than sitting at a desk ever does.
Reel 02 ends where the path meets the block back entrance. The gate squeaks — a sound I will mention once and never again unless someone oils it.