Birmingham

Words by Chandler Jones

We don’t have a river of water—it’s made of steel. Our trains are like barges; our pigeons, like herons. Te banks rise thirty foors high, and the mines lie still except for the whispers of ghosts with ashy faces and dried hands.

It snakes through the valley, giving life to those who need it. We swim upstream, against the current, to fnd a place we’ve never seen but know exists. Our history is like an old tattoo—faded, but still deep in the skin. It reminds us of how far we’ve come, and yet how far we’ve lef to go. But if you listen, you can still hear the sounds of the past—Duke Ellington’s piano; the Marx Brother’s standing ovations . . .

It’s a city with the pulse of jazz and a spirit of renewal, where colors are blended together to repaint what is old and forgotten. It’s where a new generation has something to say, and isn’t afraid to speak loud enough to be heard. So as you walk along our river of steel, and you see your refection, know that it’s not Magic . . .

It’s Birmingham.