Piotr Florczyk Pastoral

I was born in a city—you've never been there. I rubbed shoulders with
buildings, blue
trams, and pigeons. Then I had this idea to take a hike and get some fresh
air elsewhere.

The idea wasn't mine, but nor were the oaks I hugged with strangers, or
the lashing
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.
The idea
was mine. I've carried it around like a breadcrumb; neighbors think I've
got stuff

up my sleeve. So we're learning together how to cross an intersection with
the lights
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
silence, something

like a furrow or a dagger.









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