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Forgotten in between the towers 

jolting from the inescapable 

prosperity, 

she yawned and said

“maybe tomorrow”

Scarred with remnants of what was

cracked concrete

ancient trees holding their breaths, 

praying to bear fruit

one more season

running one more year

ahead of possible extinction, white flag

in the name of growth. 

“This used to be all orchards”

the hymn sung by the breed old enough to 

remember, crossing the street slowly, 

never rushed. 

An abandoned train depot, 

green paint clinging on

witnessing one of the last traditions

passing reverence among the lonely 

tumbleweeds. 

And we’re all the black sheep on

the street that

doesn’t 

belong

settling hesitantly into this sleepy

little

yesterday

somehow quietly belonging

nestling ourselves in the peace 

amongst the

often heaviness of the growing noise.