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  • I hadn't given any thought to coming here. I'm not giving much thought to coming back.

    Tomorrow I leave. It's not my city.
  • All I see is stone
    thick and tall and unflinching
    flanking the longest blocks I have ever walked. The widest streets.
    Proportion severe.
    Scale startling.
    Gray tones intense.

    A city block is far more than a city block.
    A courtyard is far more than a courtyard.
    A façade is far more than a façade.

    These streets are not my streets. Too imposing. Too gray. Too cold.
    This sky is not my sky. Too cold. Too gray. Too empty.
    This language is not my language. Too rough. Too cold. Too gray.
  • People don't cross the street unless the light is green. Neither do dogs.
    There are no cats.
    Babies stay quietly in their prams.
    Kids ride their bikes on the paths.

    No one wears electric blue shoes. They stare at my electric blue shoes. Good thing I left the chartreuse ones at home.

    This is not my city.
  • But then there's this:

    The other night just as the asteroid was whizzing by out in near space, a murder of crows--I think they were crows--whizzed by my window, around and around in the night's cauldron, all chattery cacophony.

    This morning a huge red squirrel with pointy furry ears gave me the once over.

    A Turkish neighborhood gave me spice and tea and song.

    And the friend I have come to help move fills the city with color and light and story.

    Tomorrow I will tuck it away in my bones as I board the train.
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