Foxes on the Hill

A map is not the territory it represents, but, if correct, it has a similar structure to the territory, which accounts for its usefulness.

A Postcard from the Volcano
Wallace Stevens
Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill;

And that in autumn, when the grapes
Made sharp air sharper by their smell
These had a being; breathing frost;

And least will guess that with our bones
We left much more, left what still is
The look of things, left what we felt

At what we saw. The spring clouds blow
Above the shuttered mansion-house,
Beyond our gate and the windy sky

Cries out a literate despair.
We knew for long the mansion's look
And what we said of it became

A part of what it is ... Children,
Still weaving budded aureoles,
Will speak our speech and never know,

Will say of the mansion that it seems
As if he that lived there left behind
A spirit storming in blank walls,

A dirty house in a gutted world,
A tatter of shadows peaked to white,
Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.

Located on stolen land traditionally home to Kickapoo, Osage, Kiowa, Wichita, and Nʉmʉnʉʉ (Comanche) Tribes, and home to many others that were violently removed from their homelands, we garden with gratitude for the ancestral knowledge and teachings of Peoples who still lead us toward connection to Earth.

We encourage you to make donations to the Tribes in your area, and learn about and amplify the incredible things Indigenous people are doing.

23rd St. Community Garden is queer, neurodivergent, disabled, multi-generational, anti-capitalist, gender non-conforming, trans, Indigenous, and a lot of fun. We hope you’ll join us.