KATE WAS ALONE, stopped in the middle of a bridge, looking up at the spectacular sky: the deep rich blue damask of dusk, the fast-moving puffy clouds, layers of whites and silvers and grays piled atop one another. The lights were on in the windows, on the fronts of bicycles, reflecting in the water.
Ironically, the author's desire and effort to make each paragraph a poetic masterpiece overshadows and distracts from the story he wants to tell.
