8 February 2026 – I thought line & light were already magic. Then came the surprise.

The first “line” is, literally, a line-up.

I’m walking north on Quebec, and I see what is surely the year’s first sidewalk line-up for a cone from Earnest Ice Cream.

I almost join the line; don’t; almost turn back to join the line when I see this fellow ahead of me enjoying his cone so very much.

But I don’t. I walk on down to False Creek.

Where quite different lines greet me — racing shell pods just this side of the Olympic Dock, their vertical above/below lines bisected by the horizontal line of the water. And, bouncing all around, scattershot rays of sunlight.

Anchoring the east end of False Creek, more lines — all those triangles that slot together to make Science World’s big round geodesic dome. Plus sunlight, playing favourites with a few of the facets.

My eye is in for the rectilinear. Then I get distracted by this evergreen.

Nature doesn’t do rectilinear! But, lines are lines. Just… different lines. And still the bounce of light, above, behind, and filtering through.

Back to the rectilinear…

and back to nature.

The silhouette of the crow, the curve of the branches; everything drenched in light.

I turn south along the little creek that flows through Hinge Park. There has been some reed-clearing here, I think, creating a more defined line through the water. I learn on the railing, watch ducks paddle their rounded lines through all those verticals, real and reflected.

And then… and then I realize I’ve just cocked my head, probably pulled a quizzical face.

What is that sound? Faint tappings, rhythmic, and, even fainter, the crooning of an almost subliminal voice.

I follow my ears on down the creek-side path. Then I see it. A bit farther south, spanning the creek. The industrial pipe cum “railway engine” cum pedestrian bridge…

cum percussive instrument.

Thanks to the three people sitting on top.

I am enchanted. Look! A boy at one end, a couple of 20-somethings at the other; all three tapping sticks against the metal, woven into each other and into the recorded soprano vocal line that inspires them.

The young men remain seated. The boy moves around, explores other surfaces.

He braces against the “smoke stack”…

and then, sure-footed, turns to make it his own next musical instrument.

I lean there until the music ends. The boy disappears down thriough one off the cut-outs, obedient to his mother’s call. The young men notice me, and wave. I applaud, then tap my heart. They tap their hearts, and throw their arms wide in my direction. I throw my arms wide, right back at them. We beam at each other.

Magic.