Trees naked and starving for light
dance towards fresh air in the middle
of brick paths past streetlights and trolleys
onto historic hills. Choreography plays
classic tunes as branches mold into the breeze.
Over those historic hills lay creaking signage
and mom-and-pop shops that exist as a constant.
A man wavering with his cane picks the more dangerous
path. He treks up Beacon Hill past brick paths and streetlights
and chooses the pavement to cushion his hike.
Like lungs, the vessles become the canopy.
It’s quiet, but the history is loud.