Here on the sidewalk even the wild grasses have their story – the broken glass, the paper folded and torn in a specific way – everywhere evidence of the whirlwind of human activity; the shape of culture, genetics, the beat of wings, the vibrating passage through to another; the pounding in the temples that, with clarity, resolves to that of another’s thoughts; the sway of the crowd, the jiggle of breasts, asses, calves – their response; the repetition of movement, of thought; the tangled line that spells out the whole of our stories. I see a man walking to his truck and realize the notion that white people can’t dance is a myth. There’s a particular rhythm to this or that delineation in its natural state that I enjoy in all its peculiarities: a man who works with his hands, a young woman who has no partner, an old man who can’t walk very far, the child getting out of school. The movement of people reflects back through time, the flow constant, for so long that our movements are instinctual. This long poem of humanity yields great depth to the simplest gesture, volumes of information reaching past the moment of contact down through to impossible depths. The pattern reveals its source.

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