West Oakland skies are clear. The moon shines hard. Lighting up corners where the lazy streetlights don’t push back against angular nooks and crannies where no light gets in. Blacked out houses and shadows cast by industrial real estate make more of the dark.
It’s quiet like the country. Until you hear an old man pushing his things, the sound is almost like a ghost rattling his chains in a haunted house. The streets are full of spirits, supernatural and fermented.
Sometimes there’s the sharp bark of an argument. Loud booze voices split the night like parchment cracking. The wind is standing still. With the right eyes it looks like a movie set where the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles might fight the Foot Clan.