This is a letter to people who turn the city of big shoulders 
into the city of fast walkers, walkers swaddled 
into dull overcoats and hats, moving like migrating wildlife.  
 
This is a letter to people who transform the city at dusk, 
a day’s worth of office air puffing above them 
as they swarm sidewalks and bridges, 
necks and chins drawn in against Chicago’s cold, 
in their daily ritual of moving to the trains.  
Most wear athletic shoes because of the salt—
dress shoes still under their desks.  Small particles 
in the pavement beneath their feet sparkle to city lights 
as they come on.  
 
This is a letter to those who leave on time, 
who know exactly how long it takes to change shoes, 
to reach the street, to walk to the station, and to board.  
They move to the right on the broad sidewalks 
making room for those in haste.  
 
This is a letter to employers who adjust meeting 
times to train schedules.  And to workers who must 
stay late, one eye on the clock that holds the last train.  
 
This is to the unspoken silence of hurry, 
and the muffled staccato of heels on pavement 
becoming thin, brittle on the bridges over Chicago River.
 
This is to all who, if they pulled back 
their hoods or scarves and looked up, would see
through drifting rags of city steam, February
working its way through the skyline.  
 
This is to the tall black man with blue knit cap, 
tucked into a doorway of the Civic Theater—
battered saxophone case open in front of him—
trying to keep fingers, mouth, and  mouthpiece warm 
while he plays a peppy tune.  Our stride 
comes together when we hear him.  
 
This is a letter to bus drivers being patient at intersections 
when we’re late through the light.  
 
This is even a letter to those among us, 
who, if they look up, mutter “lemmings,” 
then put their heads down and continue.  
 
It’s also a letter to the elderly woman in a pink suit 
and pill box hat, standing out of the wind at the entrance 
to Union Station, her now-shabby pink luggage beside her,
the make-up case open in front of it.  She’s been 
a daily fixture since spring when we first thought 
she was waiting for someone, a son, perhaps, 
to drive up and take her to his house on the north shore.   
 
This letter is to train conductors in winter-weight navy blue—
“CONDUCTOR” across the front of their hats—
who, without checking their watches, 
open the car doors to let passengers into the warmth.  
 
This is a letter to the men in the Bridge Street Bar 
who nightly raise a glass to the rush rumbling by, 
and to their never-gets-old pink cheeks toast: 
“There but for a wife and mortgage, go I.”  
 
This letter is particularly to the railroads on that day, 
when they put on special trains to empty the city, 
September 11th, 2001.
 
And finally, this is a letter to the man 
last week who held the door open for me
on the last car of the last train 
as it picked up speed heading into the night.
                        

Magic is something that leaps into flight, 
releasing its grip from your hand 
as it pulls you into the first down stroke.
 
He liked to land on my left shoulder, 
feathers rustling azure, gray, 
a faint scraping as they folded
 
for his look into my pocket, 
raw peanuts in a matchbox 
that I tapped to make a rattle; 
 
it made him climb along my sleeve, 
trust stepping sidelong to my forearm  
as he looked in both my hands, 
 
my face and the pocket again. 
How can I be so hard to train?  
                        

Burdened with intelligence 
of raven and crow, 
interaction is surrender 
of part of himself.  
 
Not the red-tailed hawk, 
one wing lowered to circle 
again an open spot 
on the east ridge, 
 
stabbing its hunting cry, 
or quail huddled in dust baths 
they’ve scratched 
under gray-blue sage.  
 
This character, 
who floods a space 
with squalls and squawks,
chases away all, 
 
but not this teen—
yet to discover 
words, the power.  
This small, dark eye 
 
at your ear stands listening.  
A primitive intelligence.  
Listening has language 
for blue and blonde.