One.
I’ve grown to like small places. I like bugs, bug homes, walking stick bugs, blades of grass, ladybug Ferris wheels made out of dandelions.
I like puddles, segments of reflections in dew and the parable of the bagworms I once made up. I’ll tell you later.
On the other side of my apartment window is a dirty grey compartment of Central California sky.
It's right there; just on the other side of a wall, through a piece of glass, through an unopened doorway, even beneath cracks in the floor
Endless grey corporate sky. Above valley cities, cubicles of dirty air. I can see the grey, can practically taste a chunk of cottony smog.
I tie my shoes. No great mystery about this cul de sac. Southern valley catcher's mitt of mountains harbors the worst air in the nation.
Just read the headlines in other cities. You won't necessarily read it here in this all-American city, though everyone around here knows it
I’ve grown to like small places. I like bugs, bug homes, walking stick bugs, blades of grass, ladybug Ferris wheels made out of dandelions.
I like puddles, segments of reflections in dew and the parable of the bagworms I once made up. I’ll tell you later.
On the other side of my apartment window is a dirty grey compartment of Central California sky.
It's right there; just on the other side of a wall, through a piece of glass, through an unopened doorway, even beneath cracks in the floor
Endless grey corporate sky. Above valley cities, cubicles of dirty air. I can see the grey, can practically taste a chunk of cottony smog.
I tie my shoes. No great mystery about this cul de sac. Southern valley catcher's mitt of mountains harbors the worst air in the nation.
Just read the headlines in other cities. You won't necessarily read it here in this all-American city, though everyone around here knows it