Junkyard dogs beget junkyard dogs, frenzied snarling and wild-eyed,
or when they don't, frantic kittens slinking fast under cyclone fences.
I stand ten or twelve feet from mayhem doing my best to stay level-
headed, one foot perched atop wet gravel, the other facing an ugly
street, rusting Chevrolets and illusions of safety. Then, as if beckoned
by a kind god, a tiny bird erupts all yellow, spectacularly alive, singing
that rings like a monastery bell, like a river cooling a stand of birches
over the desperate scene.
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