Red Clay Hills

From my stoop, it sometimes feels like I can see all of Tallahassee. Or at least that all of Tallahassee passes my place during the day. Perched up on my castle wall with a beer, Saturday's a neverending parade. Bike kids on homemade machines, asses up as they coast, dirty patched pants in the breeze. Folks hustling to work, maybe cursing Tallahassee's miserable public transit service, maybe just wishing they could be kicked back in front of their own place with a brew. Businessmen, lawyers, and lobbyists strolling in the evening from whatever backroom deals kept them here back to their hotels. (Unlike the ones on their way to work, the men in suits can always be surprised into a quick hello when hailed from on high.)

A ranbow of cars, flashing back sunlight or lamplight. Spankin new rims and tires on a beat up piece of Detroit steel from the 80s. Jumped up pickups, radios thumping hiphop or country depending on who all the driver's impressing, a splash of mud across the fenders and door. Hippie tribes in old volvos, headed down toward New Leaf or Samrat. Cute girls on scooters, one of the few plus sides to the current gas crisis.

My wood-frame cottage was built in 1930, when Monroe Street was thinner and my yard was wider. Almost 80 years of bachelors taking in the weather and the river of city life. The taps may run and the walls may rot, but the view is worth every penny of the rent.

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