A year begins.
14th street is quiet in the morning after, scattered confetti and a group of young boys on their way home, saying good morning and giggling, you allow it. The dog is oblivious to turned pages, her focus remains where it's been for ten years, on finding chicken bones along the edges of the sidewalk. There is a reassuring beauty in routine.
You try to imagine your own proverbial chicken bones, the thing that'll keep you always on the hunt, always with your nose to the scents, the thing you'll never tire of trying to reach. You suspect it's a story, but it might just as well be the way your heart feels in your chest when the afternoon sunlight hits downtown Manhattan as you scale the Brooklyn Bridge. One is not worth more than the other.
A year begins.
You aim to begin
with it.
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