I weave through the city.
The squirrels keep up; they understand
the urge to race in the dappled light.
A recorded voice drawls out, slow and Texan:
“The walk sign is on to cross 24th street at Lamar,”
and the woman at the crosswalk repositions her earbuds.
She runs north, and I, south– past Shoal creek looking rocky
and innocent, as if it did not flood west downtown just last year
and the year before that.
A girl’s dog pulls her to the ground straining to greet me.
“He’s excited to see you,” she pants. I understand
the urge to run toward the new and the strange.
The silvery exhale of a bus
matches the uneven pulse of
my breathing as I see my city’s skyscrapers
like a collective shout, loom over the 15th street bridge.
Living in a city is like lying eye level with the grass,
watching it grow.
the wind also sings
out of my register
it flings me to second chair
with a worship beyond world
like an armed vanguard
it heaves a mighty word upon us
with the insistent roar of a highway
Coming! Come. . . ing!
weaving the trees
thatching a banquet hall
sweeping it clean
the wind also sings.
make room in me for new things,
for I cling hard to the thin trees of winter
and the mint taste of cold air.
ducks, compared to me, are much more organized
they pattern themselves
submitting for miles to wing-beats in front
faces watch tail feathers and eyes never meet
friendship forgotten in the circle of sky, the same of wings, the
above scrawny oaks and the grope of mistletoe, I hear duck voices
no, I do not know what it means
do they hate or love the regimen?
I see only this: they get where they mean to go.