My City in Autumn
This afternoon I took the dogs on a stroll down to the Hawthorne district. It’s that lovely window of season, when the sun shines so bright but the air bites crisp, and all the leaves are golden and grounded. The dogs startle and hug my legs when a bus goes by. They’re still getting used to the big city. But not me.
I wore a miniskirt and leg warmers. I wore padded mittens and a thick scarf, and witnessed my city through cloudy puffs of my own breath. Here, I walk with my head held a little higher. Here, I walk with a little more swing in my hips.
A young man on a bicycle chased me down to shake my hand and tell me I’m beautiful.
The high school kids on the corner were draped in Indian blankets.
The liquor store loiterers sing only in Russian.
A very old, very short, very humpbacked woman was sweeping her sidewalk leaves. She wore a taaaaall knit cap and as I passed she turned up and flashed a grin, all smiling eyes and bright yellow teeth.
In Portland, every single stranger is interesting. I want to chase them all down to tell them they’re beautiful.
I wore a miniskirt and leg warmers. I wore padded mittens and a thick scarf, and witnessed my city through cloudy puffs of my own breath. Here, I walk with my head held a little higher. Here, I walk with a little more swing in my hips.
A young man on a bicycle chased me down to shake my hand and tell me I’m beautiful.
The high school kids on the corner were draped in Indian blankets.
The liquor store loiterers sing only in Russian.
A very old, very short, very humpbacked woman was sweeping her sidewalk leaves. She wore a taaaaall knit cap and as I passed she turned up and flashed a grin, all smiling eyes and bright yellow teeth.
In Portland, every single stranger is interesting. I want to chase them all down to tell them they’re beautiful.