He sets a wingtip down
on noisy city pavement
and marvels at the buildings
reaching up
to stab the sky.
He remembers his bare feet
burning
on hard-packed dirt
back home.
Silence
save for breeze
puffing tiny cyclones
of dust.
He watches
workers rushing,
breathing in the acrid air
of car exhaust
and Urban density
suffocating Nature.
He sets out
across the city
and knows that
there is nowhere else
he'd rather be.
4 comments:
I may have overworked this a bit. It started out so simply. I was just thinking what it must have been like for my Granfather to come to L.A. from Oklahoma all those years ago, and decide that this was the place to be.
I think it retains much of the simplicity you began with. I love the tangible images, especially "puffing tiny cyclones of dust." In its originality, the mirror you offer, "last small breaths from Nature," doesn't quite compare. One I find unique, the other, a bit tired.
Yeah and that is part of the overworking. I added that whole stanza kind of last minute. It doesn't hold up. There are better words out there.
I changed it. Better, but not great.
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