Oh to fly above. The patchwork quilt is made of concrete and trees; needle-thread tarmac and spotty cobbles; glistening roofs, roads, lights, and noise (even from up here I hear the noise below). The scene sprawls out to fraying edges and to sides not yet sewn. Geological basins stretch beyond this, some filled and some bare. If only I could pluck one of my feathers and dip it into those inkwells, carving thick grooves onto the hills where liquid once ran. Flying lower, ponds now of oceanic size rush to meet me; blots and tear-stains transforming into rivers, fords and lakes. Perhaps I was wrong to describe the cityscape as a quilt. While the buildings hum it is the land around it that sings.
© Crisp