The tulips opened, just a tiny bit. All of them at the same time. Their white petals look like belly-feathers of a lost snow bird. The center of each one of the flowers seems to be illuminated by a soft and golden . Dusty antennae gather around a moist stem wearing a three pronged citron colored crown.
They all opened up towards the ceiling, as if it were the sky, as if butterflies could come and pay them a selfish visit.
I look through a mesh onto Broadway. The yellow cabs with their black decor would make such nice insects, if they were only much, much smaller.
Between the houses is a sliver of a freshly rejuvenated tree.
Across the Avenue, two bird families decided to build nests in the metal head-dress of a building. One of the decorative lions must have fallen off years ago, opening a hole that now makes the entrance to a most secure bird home. There are chirping sounds, louder than the 8 lane traffic.
The tulips are moving their heads, as if there were a soft breeze around them. I know that all that makes them move are these very words about them, pushed letter by letter into the warm keyboard of my PowerBook.