I’ve moved to this rowhouse near a train track
from the seclusion of the North Cascades.
I’ve planted cherry tomatoes & miniature marigolds
in the belly of this urban burst alongside
the nonstop restlessness of the interstate. 
 
I carve out quiet time under a rickety carport
while waiting for the first fireflies.
The noise of the city makes sense.
I hear the manifest silence. They are twins— 
hullabaloo & hush. The neighbor next door yells, 
 
“Go to hell, better yet go back to Birmingham.”
I think of Amanda when I lived in the mountain
forest—fifty acres between us.
How no one heard her desperate shrieks
when she pleaded for rescue from his abuse. 
 
Here, in the inner-city amidst a soundtrack
of ambulances & 18-wheelers, I feel an urge
to name & track living things. I call the earthworm
on the sidewalk Thea. The half-earred stray is Ralphie.
The street cat I’ve just taken in is Charlene.