The garden wall was not Connecticut. Was not built 300 years ago by Quakers. Was not made by the founders of the public library. Was not boldly hiding fiery yellow and red and orange *shoots*. Was not awaiting its photoshoot. No. It was chain link. Uneven, scrappy, left- over. It hid nothing. It hid not the dirt patches. It hid not the bound, wound pit bull. Beware. Beware. It hid not the decaying needle in plain sight. It hid not the silent interior of worn-out-house. It hid not the evidence of mid-day sleep. Silent as Quakers. Silent as a Connecticut pastoral. Silent til the sun goes down. Silent til the drugs wear off.