...from "Starting From Paumanok," by Walt Whitman:

...from "Starting From Paumanok," by Walt Whitman:

Starting from fish-shape Paumanok where I was born,
Well-begotten, and rais'd by a perfect mother,
After roaming many lands, lover of populous pavements,
Dweller in Manhatta my city, or on southern savannas,
Or a soldier camp'd or carrying my knapsack and gun, or a miner in California,
Or rude in my home in Dakota's woods, my diet meat, my drink from the spring,
Or withdrawn to muse and meditate in some deep recess,
Far from the clank of crowds intervals passing rapt and happy,
Aware of the fresh free giver the flowing Missouri, aware of mighty Niagara,
Aware of the buffalo herds grazing the plains, the hirstute and strong-breasted bull,
Or earth, rocks, Fifth-month flowers experienced, stars, rain, snow, my amaze,
Having studied the mocking-bird's tones and the flight of the mountain-hawk,
And heard at dawn the unrivall'd one, the hermit thrush from the swamp-cedars,
Solitary, singing in the West, I strike up for a New World.

. . . . . . .

(If you want to read the rest, it's at bartleby.com.)

Two years ago today, I cried like a child on the floor in front of my television. Since then, because I was not physically affected, many times I forget that I cried, or why I cried. It's hard for a girl who lives in the present to keep a line on the past. Last year, I wrote Take A Breath, City. This is this year's smaller, more serious attempt.

I don't always agree with what my country does or how it represents me. But I am fiercely proud that I have the right to disagree, to help change policy, to have a voice. I am proud of how my voice was fought for, how it continues to be allowed. God bless America and its heroes and villains.

The end.