I don’t know why it was decided that people ought to set goals during the bleakest time of the year, but here we are, and truly, what else is there to do but alternate between a Netflix coma and taking walks?

For those lacking the motivation to schlep to a State Park, why not go for an urban walk with a slight incline and sidewalks?

The Wallace Stevens Walk is, according to Google Maps and Bing Maps, two miles flat, a direct contradiction of every other source describing this as 2.4 miles.

My own commute, if I go the long way, is two miles. I never bothered to know that information until just now.

Two miles, when you walk that distance regularly, does not feel very impressive.

It feels longer than it is, perhaps, because part of it takes you down two of the three Hartford streets to resemble anything in the Gilmore Girls’ version of Hartford. Lovely homes, and the haunting feeling of being watched through curtains and doorbell cameras. If this were a place I felt I belonged, I would have lingered. 

Two miles or 2.4 miles, the act of walking provides a person with the chance to move ideas around and it’s not surprising that someone would write this poem when walking during crow season.

Are they whistling?
Are they laughing?
Is that a blackbird, crow, starling, or a grackle, and what is the difference?
And perhaps, most pressing of all: Do the crows have eyes? 

The difference between me and Wallace Stevens is that:
(1) I do have my driver’s license, and
(2) I would rather starve in a garret than work for an insurance company. I’m practical when it comes to my sanity. (Don’t worry, the feeling is mutual. The insurance companies would also rather I starve, I’m sure.)

The Wallace Stevens Walk, dedicated in 2009, begins at The Hartford, goes west on Asylum Avenue, down Terry Road, and then finishes on Westerly Terrace.

Monument conditions vary, with the one by 118 Westerly Terrace – across from Stevens’ former home – having slipped off its base. Those on Westerly Terrace are in a median. Others are behind fences. One appears to be a favorite bathroom spot for dogs (I’m assuming/hoping dogs).  One, out of context, looks like it had been dropped in a wasteland; this is a property currently being redeveloped, and the lawn has not yet returned following construction. 

Is this inspiring?

It makes me want to write something numbered much larger than thirteen and request that markers be placed along some meandering seven-mile route of inconvenience and terror, something that involves hill climbs, scooting through busted chain link fence, and running away from at least one loose dog. This would be through neighborhoods where if you’re being video recorded, it’s because someone is narrating your antics and posting it on whatever platform the kids-these-days are using. It would definitely include Olive Street and the Park River pedestrian bridge.

A friend said she had favorite sections of the poem, and that’s reasonable. It works as a whole piece, I suppose, but I like it better in chunks, seemingly unconnected.

The phrase “O thin men of Haddam” creeps me out. I prefer my blackbirds sitting on cedar-limbs, then flitting with inescapable rhythm. I prefer the silence just after the whistling.

Each marker along the route is directly beside or viewable from the sidewalk, with the exception of the two on Westerly Terrace, which seem randomly plunked in the angled median, requiring a person to step into the street to get a look.

A map of the route can be found on the Friends & Enemies of Wallace Stevens website. If you take this walk (or have done it in the past) leave a comment with your impression.