If, from your office window,
at the edge of sight,
a small brown bird steps lightly
from a flagpole;
if the redbearded prosecutor demands
that you show a precedent;
if the half-empty glass bursts into song,
and the shivering child throws you one clear-eyed glance;
if, at the sound of the temple bell,
both halves of the cat will serve on the jury,
and yet no verdict is reached;
if the dragon that rises, wet and new,
from the urban dawn, is pink and gold;
if the dragon that rises, haggard and hoary,
from the smoky dusk, is clothed in somber joy;
Then peace, that drunken mariachi band,
balancing a pitcher of sangria,
will screech and stagger its way down your street,
gallantly lifting horns to the teen
walking with her grandfather
appearing in your sideview mirror
as maybe only a couple of vatos in baggies
and dwindling at last
to the leaves and discarded wrappers
that rest against
the wheel of your car.
Your morning begins.
You turn the key, head west.
Power flows in every direction.
- - Deanna Hopper