Steven Schroeder | small
An old crow scolds but cedes the sidewalk
as I pass at sunrise, settles in a low branch
for the time being. Moments later, I
turn a corner and there are half a dozen
pretending to be earthbound until I am
upon them. Then they fly, laughing raucously
as they perch in trees that line the walk. I laugh too,
quietly, thinking how small I must seem
to beings at home on earth and in the sky
and in between. I keep my feet on the ground.
I have had decades to learn
to be old, but still
it has surprised me by demanding
that I be present by my absence.
“Chicago” plays in my head
as I walk before the city
rises. “It’s dying...
to get better.”
Chicago
19 June 2020
from sheltering in place | 2020
