They moved in herds –

curb to bus –

bus to subway.

Eyes straight ahead,

and when one did meet another’s

glance, there was rarely so much

as a hint of a smile.

The subway doors crashed open -

the herd pressed forward, oblivious to

jewel colored impatiens that spilled from

terracotta pots and tiny sparrows

nibbling on remains of focacce

on sidewalks of outdoor cafes.

I could hear the melody

of a violin in the distance,

and as I drew closer,

I discovered a kinship –

another “straniero” –

not from America, but Albania.

The herd passed quickly while I stopped to listen –

a captive audience for the next several minutes.

I dropped a coin into the open guitar case

and received a smile that rivaled the warmth of the sun.

And on I walked, a small town girl living in a big city,

thousands of miles from home –

determined to never become a part of the herd.