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Davis Square, 2am, Litha
Jun. 22nd, 2006 02:10 amIt's the shortest night of the year. Rum singing in my head atop the sweet whorls of passionfruit and mango, I float in and out of shadow, strolling home.
Once or twice I practice a stance of defense, an alert posture learned from years of city living, the dance of you-can't-be-too-careful in a town where I've never known trouble.
It's quiet. I don't see a soul. A bird sings so many different tunes in a row I wonder if it's a machine, duplicating birdsong, that someone has hung in a tree in the ballpark just outside the square. I remember a story about a city mockingbird who'd learned to ape car alarms. One after another, this one sings tunes for a sore ear in the middle of the shortest night of the year.
Every air conditioner rattles; every streetlamp hums. Along with the idling of taxis, the silence forms a subtle chord, tuning to the harmonics of neon in the pizza-shop window, the fluroesence of a disembodied hand hefting a Coollatta to eternity.
Even the hippest coffee shops have closed.
My muscles sing the warmth of a night walk, alone, safe. A police car rambles around the block with nothing to do. The sidewalk trees sigh. In the doorway of the Goodwill, amid the debris of the day's donations, a bearded man peacefully sleeps.
Once or twice I practice a stance of defense, an alert posture learned from years of city living, the dance of you-can't-be-too-careful in a town where I've never known trouble.
It's quiet. I don't see a soul. A bird sings so many different tunes in a row I wonder if it's a machine, duplicating birdsong, that someone has hung in a tree in the ballpark just outside the square. I remember a story about a city mockingbird who'd learned to ape car alarms. One after another, this one sings tunes for a sore ear in the middle of the shortest night of the year.
Every air conditioner rattles; every streetlamp hums. Along with the idling of taxis, the silence forms a subtle chord, tuning to the harmonics of neon in the pizza-shop window, the fluroesence of a disembodied hand hefting a Coollatta to eternity.
Even the hippest coffee shops have closed.
My muscles sing the warmth of a night walk, alone, safe. A police car rambles around the block with nothing to do. The sidewalk trees sigh. In the doorway of the Goodwill, amid the debris of the day's donations, a bearded man peacefully sleeps.
