…in our new front yard.
Our new home embodies a dichotomy
of the human animal that I feel very acutely.
We find ourselves here, just across
one of the busiest streets in the city
from one of its oldest parks. Between
the growls of Harleys and the rumble
and hum of semi-trucks, between the
ambulances, fire trucks and cop cars,
–sirens now blending into the background–
between the talking and pishing of the
metro buses stopping one door down,
between the screams of grunged-out
scooters and the bumping and thumping
of pimped out Pontiacs, in the moments between,
in the white-noise-almost-silence-that-passes-for-silence
in the city, we hear crickets; we hear the ‘scree-ee’
of hawks, circling in the sun; and right now, tonight, the
almost-constant-nocturnal-cooing of the pigeons in the gangway
is silenced by the rhythmic hooting of a Great Horned Owl.
As the sun sinks down behind us,
we cross a threshold, a boundary,
and enter a place where the hand
of man had been staid, even if
only a little….
In this, the nearest corner–
our favorite corner–of the
park, there is a place where
the hand of man has been
staid even just a bit more.
A sanctuary, overgrown,
left alone and lovely…
We sit a while and watch
dusk creep into the wood,
we see the colors fade from
the world around us and we
notice man’s hand making
itself known again.
We take ourselves,
hand in hand in hand to
our home and the city,
serving up silence like
a gift that we do not
know how to receive,
sings us back to sleep.