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.
And….yes,
we know now,
you are the king of
sound.
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