Up on the 27th floor of the apartment building
Across the way, in the corner window stands a dog.
She is perched atop a couch, attentive, gazing intently
At Chicago’s winter streets so far beneath her wet nose.
What does she see? What can a dog know of a world
So distant, composed almost entirely of made things?
And yet the lights of the cars and buses streak like blood
Through the city’s arteries, like water through streams,
Like sap feeding the trees that here are skyscrapers—
Larger than life oaks and willows, ramrod pines, barest
Burches iced and lit up, windows twinkling like fireflies.
As far as we have come from nature, here from this high place,
It seems that the city imitates the natural world despite itself.
Here from this high place, where airplanes circle like hawks
And trains rumble like bears, a dog stands at attention and regards,
Just beyond all these things, the frozen stillness of the lake.
