Your bothersome shadow races ’round my room as you do outside it,
Harassing and cheating of sleep me and the house robins alike.
Across the road I see your white hips swivelling, oiled
with the intent that arm muscles flex; struck metals clank;
Idle engines busy; and that tempers and lanes be lost.
Drivers fume behind your groaning cement mixer trucks, and
horns gore the harmless urban hum to which I’m accustomed:
A hum which I call, quiet.
You’ve stolen it from my home and from under treetops green and shadowy,
And with it my frappy concept of being much like that monk who
sits mountainside, seat grounded in grass to meditate . . . pray.
You may say my prayers aren’t much; but not the monk’s
whose job is harder today because you deconstruct cloudbanks and
dance your latticed boom in circles — just to lift and lower fluff as
your crew opens Dirt’s brown shroud over all that stands upright.
Why have monks pray in vain to free me from suffering and its causes?
Come down and immediately stop tossing your nonsense at my senses.
Come down and observe yourself racing through my light, bothering things.
Crane, you deface an azure blue sky and steal its sea-like wondrousness.
Curly white waves once floated across a blue horizon but now
I cannot watch them fragment, flatline, merge and resurge. And worse
when you’ve built a wide tower that cuts me off from the light of day; Then,
by your plans, only in memory shall I study the sky, and not from my little window.
By then you might drive me to find, outside the city, a clear patch of sky;
But whether dropped from airplane or from eagle talons onto Broad Rock,
the dense mist surrounding Meteora may not be enough to cleanse me, if,
at the base of your long neck, you cannot find the heart to be still.