They were all over. Flamboyantly alienated in their duds and their dreads. Running away from home. Sleeping in public shelters. Congregating in soup kitchens. Loitering with their pets. Panhandling. Cleaning your windshield.
I found them stages. Sweet spots in the urban fabric. Widgets of space and texture manufactured by time. The 18th and the 19th centuries embedded in the 20th.
They improvised their ceremony. The lens performed the marriage. And I, I let them Be, if only for an instant. Angels of History - only they did not know it.