King of Sound
I can smell the thick stale air as I hear the planes flying above.
A rooster or chick is unusual in such swaying domestic trees.
Partial sunlight lends to the shadows of outer curves of leaves.
Industry cries circle the spatial winds.
There is slowing movement of old men in the swaying trees-but with strength,
dignity, and remembrance.
The echoes of children holler at me now-as I shriek in my body.
I hear a click not to know what it is that is in my presence.
The jungle cluck of birds in trees has brought in the exotic.
Somehow the sound of a drum roll of ancient tribes
chime in with the local lumber.
Swooshing tractors bring city congest
as a like of a roar of lions and crying babies
submerge with them.
We hear you birds,
as they call my name.
We won’t forget you.
we know now,
you are the king of sound.