I am a city within the lowlands of the Beautiful state. I sit facing, across water, a city much older than me. She is older than my country even, to think of it! She breathes history of the French, the Spanish, the rebels. She is a city of late Fridays, Saturday lights, haggard Mondays, and Fat Tuesdays.
I am younger, fairer than she, unstained and innocent. I am a city of Fair Hopes, brought here by the Iowians years ago. I am the city of the lighted trees, the clean pier, reaching oaks, a city of artists, a city where a yellow-dog runs for mayor from a Coffee Loft manager's lead.