The Point of the Shadow

By the time it is light the path has brought you down to a lake, and on the trail at its north end there is a dome. It is sixty feet across, a shell of glass and steel struts, with muscadine on the lower panels and Strawbactus climbing beside it, flat green pads with a soft fur. High in the struts hangs a nest the size of a car. Green parakeets sit in rows along the steel triangles, talking.

The dome's shadow lies long across the trail. A stone beside the path has a 9 painted on it, just inside the shadow. A woman in running shoes stands at the stone, tipping her phone this way and that. On her screen a marble rolls round a ring. She waits for the ring to go brass, tips once more, and the marble drops through a gap to the next ring. Now and then she looks up at the point of the shadow, a few yards past the stone, and down again.

On the bench under the nest a man has a notebook open on his knee, a pencil going. He looks up at you and slides along the slats, making room.