Moving to the city brings about
the bustle and excitement of
lights that never go out.

The guitars and horns and
trains whistle to and from
forming a chiming cacophony.

Noises and voices surround,
encouraging, soliciting,
keeping loneliness away.

The proximity of city life
to the desired destinations
of work and play is sustainable.

The fields of grass have yielded
fields of concrete that assist
travelers to their destinations.

And in the midst of the convenience,
and the concrete, I find,
I can no longer hear the land.

I can’t hear the tree change
when the seasons call it,
or the frog’s nightly lullaby.

I can’t smell the change of seasons,
or see the constellations put on
their nightly brilliance.

I can’t spend an hour with the sunset,
over a field of wheat and chaff,
this I can do no longer.

I can’t taste the invasive honeysuckle,
I don’t have memory of this land,
I can’t walk it with closed eyes.

For all the sounds of the city,
I trust the land is talking,
but I can’t hear it anymore.