Swift Migration

I left the concrete via turn lanes,
one-way streets, the homeless
suffering. An overpopulated mass
transit subway system; a pulsing
aorta of mortal vestige.

I hotfooted it like fleeing deer
from a forest ablaze; mosquitoes
absquatulating out of rippling water.

The city has me sweating more
than normal this year.
A wild time. Not the year
for lovers luck.

Static covers understanding and
conversation like moss.

Peat?

No, just a mossback.
A backwards pedestrian crossing
towards flooded basements.
Beyond the city limits, the brisk air
and whispers of deceased foliage
smash my face like a rubber mallet
against a Bondo dent.

A sparrow, or maybe a finch,
skims in the wind, dodging hail
and meteor particles reminiscent of
December dandruff on a black sweater.

Their wings brushing bashful.

It’s to the country setting I’m jetting to.
No bike lanes or parking meter readers.

Just the echoes of silence and
the smells of hogs and ethanol.