This is my city! Not only to walk the streets, among loose throngs out as the workday moves forward--the "unemployed," the alternatively employed from wino to artist, the "retired," those who have a day or hour off, young ones skipping school--not only to enjoy shopwindows/varieties of buildings, faces, clothes, ways of walking--but to laze in the jazz of many pistons, to lounge in the busyness of the workaday, to consider city crows, to observe long-slanting chutes and hot cuttings of light, cold shade cuttings too, reflections, sun swathing and spilling geometries, and then shade as clouds pass--to gear down in the jazz and the stuffed moral gut: to be audacious or disobedient enough to stand back and take a long view--here, into whatever interests me. Because sprites live here too, and leprechauns and nymphs for the one who slows down, strobed between claps of a jackhammer; slower, slowing down between deep square-running pulses of traffic and the un-companies who Walk and Don't Walk together.