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Elevator Conversation
It's a joy I can't admit-- this marveling to find myself in season following season. Seems melodramatic, this inner grin, this quizzical shake of the head. "What are you so happy about?" grumbles a colleague as we whisk our way to the 12th floor. Oh, nothing , I can hardly reply, just surprised to be alive.
Wildlife
Inexplicably, two pairs of Canada geese choose to nest on the Pleasant Street bridge. Topping short ornamental towers, gargoyle like, they imprecate passersby, lift slender tongues like stamens of black lilies, like blades concealed in the wrong end of an assassin's cane. I brave road rather than sidewalk, cars over proximity to each hard-eyed goose. From depths of smogged water, a great fish rises, long as my arm. At leisure, he samples air near the surface, lingers almost in reach. Fins ripple, large as my palm, furl like fabric in a gentle breeze. He basks in his world's liquid wind. We see walls, the expert said, they see canyons. We see an industrialized river, they see home. Every morning on my way to work, barn swallows snip air, sheer clean curves and precise angles, work clean as a bright pair of scissors in and out and under the bridge. Their bodies are effortless, an ebullience, iridescent and orange.
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