Hieroglyph lines. Rough drawn up to the hilltop, around that curve of the river, like lines broken up by the swaying of branches across the forest road, or the too harsh brushing of curious hands who can't resist touching.
Small town Europe, seen from my late flight. Little towns whose streets shiver in lights, tiny against the wild spaces of mountain and forest. Freckles on velvet. A night map to guide you home.
The river joins up a string of villages, threads in beads of little towns, unties the knot to spill them into the massing city that draws all rivers in, like the arms of a star might pull the attention of a sky-watching eye. The city, in turn lets those tiny beads run out to sea.