My friend K and I are sitting on a bench on Eagle Street. It is cool, slightly breezy, quiet. The sun shines lightly on us as we draw a church down the block. After an hour or so we amble around and find ourselves at the end of Chicken Alley. Tucked into a tiny collection of potted plants against an old wall, these astonishing pitcher plant blooms stir gently in the breeze. The air is quietly seething.