Must a Violence

December 24

17 December 24 The sirens are wailing down Washington Street. Down Washington Street the bunched cars part to either curb. In the square’s center, an immense pine tree stands strung with lights by the bank placard. Waiting, we read the digits of time, the digits of temperature. The wind’s fingers worm through the stitches of our scarves. No clothes fasten close enough that the wind cannot undo. The glass day leans blue against the tall facades. Here at the bus stop, a measly hoard of individuals waits to be transported by the number 86. If it comes, we will file on, orderly, rustling coats and bags. The shabby bags look beaten on the sidewalk. If it comes, we will ride down Market Street away, soaring in our rigid plastic seats. The only real birds that come here anymore are cardinals beating the hoards of English sparrows back. Just before I took the outside stairs, I saw one fly into a bush of dead brown branches. I held my breath and watched its red flickering, a fluttering heart inside the brittle, leafless volume of the bush. 18 Its redness turned over and over inside the dead brown like an exquisite gem in a mud-caked palm. A pulsing of red like the beat in a sweeping lighthouse beacon where it meets and meets again a still observer’s eye. I watched the quick flash of its vivid red, the angular skittish turns inside the dead remnants of sticks. And pulled myself away for what? For what. ...