Looking Down From Above 

“Where does it end?” She said
in cities that, like forests, show streamers,
trees dripping dew during the pastimes of
our fathers. Amongst normalcies and everyday
drifters, there’s no time to cry: for lost lives.
Frost thaws each morning.

Circling, circling, circling, a falcon screams
at cloud heights and reminds us where the
atmosphere goes: up. Dust hits the air as
often as we breathe it, but every sunrise
finds it hard packed and resilient — like
the feet that constantly kill it.

As evergreen sentinels attend a desert
soiree, we’re reminded every day we don’t belong
here. This shouldn’t be here: slumped shoulders
in a city of sin and tears hitting mud caked flood
waters that don’t need our help to drown hope.
We look up to the falcons and sigh.

“When does it end?” She said
as mud inevitably turns into the blood waters
of our fathers and soaks into our clothes until
— “We always have had red sweaters” —
we drown in the atmosphere of dove cries
while the falcon circles higher and higher and —

Stay gold,
Sabrina