At sunset a red light like housefires shines from the narrow hillside windows the houses’ bricks burn like glowing coals. I will see the city poured rolling down the mountain valleys like slag, and see the city lights sprinkled and curved around the hills’ curves, rows of bonfires winding. WHEN EVERYTHING ELSE HAS GONE from my brain-the President’s name, the state capitals, the neighborhoods where I lived, and then my own name and what it was on earth I sought, and then at length the faces of my friends, and finally the faces of my family-when all this has dissolved, what will be left, I believe, is topology: the dreaming memory of land as it lay this way and that. PITTSBURGH WASN’T REALLY ANDREW CARNEGIE’S TOWN.
AFTER I READ The Field Book of Ponds and Streams
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