A sprout sprouts from the dirt. Above, dead leaves keep the tender leaf cool & moist. Below, worms churn the soil -- churn and aerate. Fungi decompose the lowest leaf layer, turning it into nutrients for the sprout. I'm tapped into all that magic from afar: -creation & destruction, feeding into each other -energy becoming life, life becoming matter, matter that - in turn - becomes energy. If there's a forest, I am the forest. I'm life and energy & death and decomposition... all in due time.
the caged cat stalks a prey it cannot see, and cannot reach; does the pseudo-prey know? does its heartbeat quicken?
through the bamboo snowcaps catch the morning sun -- what bamboo?
Loomed over by Howrah Bridge -- that big steel beast -- the flower market is a world of color, marigold garlands in orange, yellow, and alternating orange & yellow. The odd stack of roses: white, pink, and -- of course -- red. White garlands with red accents. Greenery. Loose flower heads in piles, pecked at by tiny birds that bounce and flit. Rose petals at risk of being carried by a gust into a swirling cyclone of romance -- only to be left littered on the muddy pavement.
bare rain trees form a dome the eyes see, yet isn't there
the squeaky wheels of a laden bike cart attract all eyes
the preening egret twists its head under wing; its birdness wanes
There was an angry, old man from Atlanta who each winter was tapped to play Santa. In the suit he would bake, scratching a beard that was fake, as he fought Varsity dogs with piles of Mylanta.
the spider waits at the edge of its web - conspicuous, but still
