The smell of brick, spring flowers and Fenway-

He sits peacefully in the sun, an old man selling plastic birds.
As a young man, did he sell papers on same corner?
I ask him if I could take a picture.
He nods yes.

I do not want a plastic bird.
I want a photo.

“I would like a green one,” I say.
He passes it to me as if bestowing a secret
“You have to fill it with water,” he says filling it with water.

I blow.
Nothing happens.

“You have to pucker your lips,” he says.
I pucker my lips and blow again.
From the plastic bird emerges a beautiful song that floats above the traffic

How many Bostonians own one of his birds?
And if they played at the same time what magic would fill the streets:
Cars would stop
Women would leave their salons, nails wet, to watch
Cats chasing after the sound of his plastic birds

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