The city thrums,
beneath the sparrow’s feet
pecking crumbs
of unforgiving stone.
Here, pigeons labour
over concrete
colosseums,
their wings an ashen blur
against the smog-stained sky.
But the thrush,
the wren,
the lark
with their songs
of leaves
and light,
find no solace
down canyons
of steel.
Their melodies,
fragile things,
dissolve
into the traffic’s roar.
The chorus fades,
pruned to...
