... of a port

By early evening the city could be seen on the coast; she could make out the strange round spires and a thundering black human flow between the buildings. On the beaches stood erect huge sails of blue and gold, hovering over the white sand as though to navigate the entire city south; there was the rustling and hubbub of carts on the docks, to which the sea rushed on collision course. Domes of silver and shaded grass shimmered in the twilight, and houses perched precariously on poles, as though impaled above the other rooftops. The people in the streets rushed to the sight of the boats, but no one waved or cried to the marketeers; they watched in silence, without expression. The boats surfaced like a caravan from the ocean bottom, with their agents and brigands, merchants and dark priests in robes and tunics, cloaks and head-dresses and jewellery. The entire city went quiet. As dark fell the lights of the city shifted in colour, first in orchestration and then individually, chaotically, popping and bubbling in different hues: the whole of Tunis seemed to be exploding in concise, hushed detonations. The black flow of the avenues stopped, all the faces turned seaward.

[Days Between Stations, Erickson, S.]