thirty-one-thousand feet above the appalachian mountain range, hurtling down through sunset in a tin can, guts full of gumbo, ears ringing with the rhythm of the meters, funkier than ever in their old age, closing out the festival to thousands of sunburnt pilgrims, moving as one.

descending turbulent into laguardia, wings rolling from side to side, feeling that familiar surge of anticipation and anxiety in my stomach. indigestion from the parkway po-boy i ate for lunch? or else the beautiful mad new york city rush that sometimes sends you running away to hide in a bayou forest and then lustily draws you back for more.

buckled into the backseat of a taxi, racing and breaking through traffic, neighborhoods flying by in the rain: astoria, long island city, bushwick, williamsburg, bedstuy and finally crown heights, the great trees of eastern parkway beckoning me on.

the future spreading before me like the hasty cursive of spring, reaching and curling in every direction, leaving green question marks hanging on branches, painting brick walls with creeping conjunctions, unfinished sentences bursting through cracks in the sidewalk.

james baldwin saying history is not the past, but the present. drinking in greedily the brooklyn i love: reverberating with old songs, challenging all boundaries, swimming in smells and sounds from distant places. discovering strange words and stranger friends. making impossible plans and racing after runaway trains.

pulling onto crown street, thoughts settling back into saturday night, which is cool and rainy for so late in may, but comforting anyways, a final cadenza to spring, gently rattling the windows of my quiet living room, where my lover waits for me.