The city laid a sidewalk between a broad clear street and a park where once there was a grassy shoulder: of all the places to lay a sidewalk, the least disturbing of existing patterns and the least improving to the lives of pedestrians. On the park side the ground slips quickly down the brushy bank of a stream and is protected by a railing that makes one feel not safer but more exposed to traffic, should there ever be any. But it has made the shoulder harder to mow, and come April the grass beyond the railing grew baby-stroller high and went to seed. An unusually perceptive baby might have noted the diversity of seed-heads: upright and drooping, sparse and thickly clumped, tall and short, single and multiple; graced by gravity with cacophonous curves and by breezes with mismatched rhythms. The desire for order only squeezed chaos to the margins and concentrated its beauty. But no one sees the victory of the grass except the babies, for they are the only ones not looking at their phones.