City Life

It's so loud, here, in the city. I open my window at night, and hear the white noise of the freeway and the impatient blaring of horns. The dirt in the air, kicked up by thousands of tires daily, coats everything in dust and grime, even up to a mile away.

It's not right. I want to hear the wind through the trees, smell the pollen in the evenings. I don't want to look up at night and see the orange lights of the city reflected off the belly of the clouds, or diluting the shining arm of the Milky Way. I want to have a black night, without the grim orange haze of streetlamps at every corner, nor waking in the morning to the sounds of lawn mowers and construction. I want crickets and frogs to make my nighttime lullaby, and birds to be my morning alarm clock.