Corner of 4th and 23rd
When they leave their perch in uniform-swoop, it is a
breathing, pulsating motion but no less lock-step than
the brown-shirted children marching for their Vaterland,
winging willingly down the rabbit hole, and we stir,
shaking from dream at the base of this tree feathered
with language, selling its wares, hawking its goods
in tongues foreign and familiar, each leaf alive, steady.
When one departs, another alights to take its place
sending quiet tremors down the line, affecting the
solitary peace, interrupting the talk that tingles along
these high wire branches and tangles between the toe
of each grasping stem, each lingering adornment.
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