(for Meghan) br br This dawn of fog and lingering dreams, you feel br the centuries in your waking body. Cracow br lies on a river at the foot of a hill. br Light and bells awaken senses. Black now br in shadows, hawkers fill the market square. br Pigeons greet your nose and eyes, and flowers. br You give a gnarly woman coins, and stare br up at the sky, and see the fairy towers, br the malachite-green roofs, above which rooks br fly north from Brno, Prague, or Budapest. br A fiddler plays his violin, and looks br up toward you, knowing you’re too soft and green br to pass him by. Your senses cannot rest. br The day begins, old, musty and serene.