I could have gasped my way in front—nearly did—
opted for showy parks in the trees, wrought-iron lamps,
the flash of automobiles and progress. But it’s here
in back of things by the cottonwood
the milling slows, and house sparrows hop about,
mouths agape in perpetual song, or maybe laughter.
Ready always for both.
Here is the liminal between
day and night, shift
and shift and the cottonwood’s drift and sway
to mark it all. Here’s the quick smoke
and the garbage run, curt stroll and deep breath
from the rush and front behind.
I could have been there, you know, made my name
and cut a way in the endless flow. But it’s here
the birds and I laugh.