I close the notebook, Field Notebook #16, and stand. Stretch. Move toward the window and survey the scene below my sill. Water off the fire escape onto the blacktop below; decades-old dumpsters with garbage bags billowing at their brims; pigeons smeared the grotesque color of their own excrement; a child, or a vagrant (or both), at the end of the alley finding solace beside a flame that flicks a pale apricot patch of color onto the otherwise monochromatic landscape.
I yearn for home, my home, to sleep where I belong; but these passages, they will not let me be, these notebooks will not set me free; so instead I am here, here for who knows how long, until I have set right the wrongs that no one else can see.