Aviary
There’s something childlike about meandering around another city’s streets in the quiet of a Sunday morning in midwinter. I often find myself peering into bookstores, cafes, galleries, imagining what animates these spaces at night, before they sleepily greet the Sunday morning strollers.

On a quick January visit to Boston, my friend and I oscillated between introspective walks and the intensity of nocturnal pursuits (namely, an accidental punk/country show between the hulks of campus buildings and a surprisingly good 90s dance party in Jamaica Plain, snug between a bizarre toy store and a 24-hour deli). Somewhere in between, we found ourselves with time to document. Perched on rickety stools, gazing out fogged-up windows at the empty galleries across the street as we sipped the day’s first bitterness, we decided to indulge our imaginations and knead emptiness into possibility.

Perhaps it was the taste of spring in the air or the soothing sound of chirping from still-bare branches, but we kept picturing birds. They would spiral down from a dusty crawl-space, tracing flight paths around an empty gallery, humming with energy, then, their curation complete, return to nest.

One of the habits I find myself returning to, especially when traveling, is taking an extra moment to listen, observe, imagine the miniature worlds chirping quietly behind windows.

Now that travel is an imagined luxury, I like the idea of imbuing these pauses into my hyper-local walks. With many storefronts empty, boarded, or covered with newspaper (at least for now), there is time to be curious. Next time you find yourself with a little extra time, consider learning your (masked) face towards a window. Take a deeper breath. Let your mind draw an imagined world. Remember that every space has a story.

Photo by Nolan Issac on Unsplash

The wooden sign

leans, tired, against the

pale green door frame.

It promises ‘OPEN’, but

the only signs of life are

a stepladder, abandoned,

an empty birdcage,

muted prints, hung like laundry,

fading in late-morning sun.



But, peering through the window

we glimpse

(through the fog of our winter-breath):

a flutter of movement,

a ribcage expanded.

Catch:

the quiet rustle

of tiny wings flapping,

freed from a

trap-door attic,

suddenly,

joyfully,

uncontained.

They carry echoes

of a frenzied night’s work

displaying, aligning, adjusting,

dissipating

into these

quiet hours

made still by waning light.

As our faces turn

back to the street,

they spiral upward,

rising to nest

in bare branches.

Our steps, heavy with expectation

strike more lightly, as if those

cascades of tiny wings

could rise in our ribcages

ignite our imaginations:

turn white-washed walls

into canvasses.
['Mixed-Up Yogi']
['Travel', 'Birds', 'Imagination', 'Boston', 'Friendship']