The air is heavy this morning, promising another humid day. Yesterday was the first day of summer–just a word for what can be felt so easily on my skin.

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I wander outside, from the sleep that has my husband and children curled beneath sheets. These days have me rising early and alone, listening to birdsong in my backyard. I can’t quite place the sounds, or the verdant foliage overtaking the rotting playground no longer safe for clambering. It doesn’t seem possible here–in this broken city.

But then, there it is.

. . .

I constantly readjust expectation. I love to be found a fool–taken aback by green bursting through cracks in the concrete, captive to the song of birds ignorant to the drugs sold on the corner.

I am distracted and confused by the meanness in human hearts. The exchange of bodies for drugs or money or power. The wielding of guns for the same. Retaliation and violence.

And I think it’s why I am drawn to the city. Here I dance between anger and surprise. I can’t be self-righteous, because my heart is mean in its own ways. Here I am reprimanded by love and the inexorable shouts of grace breaking through.

Here I take up my coffee and words. And I wait.

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