"It's no accident, that gardenthe wall of the yard,
Four years searching. Nothing but soured hopes.
I'd heard him, often enough,
grandly sporting from song to song.
But by the look of it, you'd think
this is strictly jay country,
whole trees full, permitting only the odd sparrow.
I'd just about given up, really.
Then, last Tuesday, off as always to the subway,
I passed the corner street-sign, hardly
worth a glance. But there, ample and bold,
as if asserting principality,
he sat, peering down at me,
flicked an indifferent tail, flew,
all with a grey-brown benevolence.
Along the Path
"So quickly, without a moment's warning, does the miraculous swerve and point to us."
Why only that one wall, just the one section?
Don't paints fade? Surely that wild lavender
can't date back to when this was
a sleepy rail right-of-way, and nobody cared
if kids spent half the day wall-painting.
Now, does somebody (armed with ladder and pail)
come by moonlight, silently, to awaken
that auroral blending, those coded hieroglyphs?
I'm almost moved to take up jogging, to pass by
more often, dawn or nightfall, to wonder.
That handbill"This path will close
March 24-31 to allow demolition
of an adjacent building"pray it's an April Fool's joke.
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