It had been a while since visiting

a big city — pedestrians on their

way, somewhere, obviously some-

where really important by their

gait, standing like stallions at the

gate which was just the curb, one

foot off (men in Allen Edmonds

and women dressed nicely in slacks

and wearing that new brand of run-

ning shoe – Hoka), onto the street

and then a hasty retreat as a Toyota

hybrid cab or some late-model Ger-

man car cuts the corner sharply half-

way through a red light. Anticipating

the light’s move to green, the horses

step off again. The light signals

go, the band strikes up, “Da…

da…da.da.da…da.da.da.da.da.da-

hhhh and Herb Gardner’s Thousand

Clowns are off to the races. It’s a

beautiful, fall day — crisp, sunny;  the

light bounces off the steel and glass

of the skyscrapers reflecting spires of

old churches, a river running through

it, the Big Lake and a newly planted

tree or two in the city’s effort to go

green. He stands for a moment on

the bridge, pedestrians on their way

to somewhere important brushing up

against him on both sides. He moves

to the side, leans over the concrete rail-

ing and looks down at the water running

away from the Big Lake, just another

mechanical wonder in the big city. Wrens

sing their way through the scraps on

the ground, while an Indigo Bunting perch-

ed on a piling watches an architectural

tour boat float by.