I was born in a city—you've never been there. I rubbed shoulders with
trams, and pigeons. Then I had this idea to take a hike and get some fresh
The idea wasn't mine, but nor were the oaks I hugged with strangers, or
brook I stood in barefoot, catch-and-releasing. I followed the rules and
stayed on the trail.
Then I changed my mind, decided to leave, but couldn't find my way back.
was mine. I've carried it around like a breadcrumb; neighbors think I've
up my sleeve. So we're learning together how to cross an intersection with
turned off, or how to tell a real turnip from a knockoff. No one complains
if, out of
boredom, I slingshot rocks at their windows, but when I stagger with a
story of the sun
climbing a fire escape in the rain, they ask not for the ending but for
like a furrow or a dagger.