You could just look across the backyards, and the cracked asphalt of the streets and the sound of that smallness, of the exactitude stored in the daily sameness came back and reverberated within you. Vines, asphalt and window fans. Every inch of every sidewalk an old story someone else already provided a reputation for. And still, the luxury of knowing directions marked by tree trunks, and mailboxes instead of intersections and stop lights and street numbers offered the faintest of variability- whole measures of bird song uninterrupted by traffic, or sirens, or disgust. You could imagine keeping bees in a hive here, even as the saxophones of some place bigger ran through scales on your spine.
Images – Harvey Stafford
Words –Hank Cherry
