sky bags

Mid-week, I leave the cocoon of the office at about 3:00 pm to go outside and sit in the big gray courtyard of the law school in downtown Brooklyn where I work. A few people come and go – one runs out of the school. Another walks a low-rider cruiser into the courtyard, chains it up near the entrance, then ambles back out, drinking coffee from a paper cup.

Suddenly a black plastic bag, high on a city draft, shoots into my view of the blown-out February sky. It floats for a moment, high over the entrance to Fulton Street Mall, twisting and tumbling on the wind, then plunges straight down to the top of the DENTIST building and sticks to something on its flat roof, is home.

So this is how it happens.

They wave and zip at us from their perches, flapping defiantly in the city wind. You never see them land or catch there...they've always just seemed to always be there. And they probably will continue along those lines. What do these strange flags mark? Someone's purchase of a sandwich at Zaytoon's. Clippers and a candy bar at Rite Aid. Dog biscuits at Love Thy Pet. Our never-ending supply of stuff we carry home and use to feather our tiny nests.

As I get up to go back inside, three of the black bag’s siblings caught in the trees lining the school’s courtyard rattle and whip in the gathering wind, welcoming the newest addition to life as a trapped-forever city flag now feathering the damp, too-warm sky.