Our city

Not just people. Not even just buildings, but all that keeps happening. The weeds, how they hitchhike in from the country thumbing a ride along highways, then cuddling closer and closer where parks are neglected or pavement broken. And pigeons, their clutter-talk and waddle, their wing-gesture from sun to shadow and back. All those night creatures, raccoons peering through masks up from the river near dawn, those muskrats determined to know what goes on when the banks close. And maybe even stabs from the sky, constellations reading their overlay, the flashbulb of the moon, a long sword when the sun levers up over the mountains and invades the east window of the mayor's office. The rain, the sleet, the snow -- how they petition at windows, their pathetic shoe-touch along gutters. All these claimants register their vote. They don't read the charter; they don't study the schedules; they just come around. They were here first, before pioneers, before Indians. So -- not just people. Come around me, city. Be all this whole treasure that fills our time. Weeds, I see your signal: remember your friend.

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