Tuesday, April 8, 2008.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008. The littlest bird in the world lives in Columbus Circle Station. This is your morning wake-up call.

(Someones day planner, a hand holding a pencil drawing in the weather.)
We can watch the seconds clash. We can count them - one-one thousand, or two-mississippi. New Yorkers forgot to care about view. They built in front of the water. They set the bricks and mortar up on a hill and fired up glass to keep out the chill. It takes you half an hour to get to 20 yards of open grass. It's the kind you just know has been combed over by men in wet caps, welcoming in the spring with fertilizer, trying to make us shaking from small town's feel at home. But we never saw land thrown together. We knew it broken up and built from God's hands. We miss the brown tops of grass and sprigs stuck out of cracks in the cement. I spend 10% of my day underground. It takes twice that to shake it off. Wake up.