Early Morning, Guangzhou
There was an elderly Chinese lady
with her right arm in a cloth
sling sitting on a low ledge
along the busy street, people
hurriedly passing by on
the sidewalk then her phone
rang—a Western classical
tune—and she answered with
her left hand. It was cold.
A small frail elderly man
being ushered by his tall
handsome most-likely grandson
shuffled by rather unaware
of anything but his destination—
somewhere—over there, while his
grandson appeared so concerned,
even worried. And a young
girl in a mini-mini flared skirt, in
thigh-high suede high-heeled boots
laced way up to her bare thighs,
she dug in a purse smaller than
a cell phone for something she
must have left at home while
an elderly woman in gray
unmatching clothes bustled
around the girl, carrying
a huge bundle of greens
hanging upside-down and
tied by brown string. While
I stood on the curb and
waited for the cleaners of
the pedestrian walkway
over the highway to finish
spraying in huge plumes
of mist the railings, and
people covered their cold
heads and ran through
frantic in the weather
cursing under their breath
the madness of such a
time and day for such a
project. Then the cleaning
finished and I started to
cross the bridge lined with
those startling fuchsia flowers
and wouldn’t be late to school
despite having waited. So
I walked up the bridge
down the bridge, through
China and a world so
many little things you
can see and record
and still so much
left wordlessly to
disappear into the sky
where I do not know
if I have already
gone myself. How
to know? The
world each day
throws a new miracle
at me and the wonder
of it is everything.
