The Flyer

Above the city's brick and concrete nest,
Green-patched with lawns and speckled through with trees,
I glide, grey stalking eagle, and my chest
Hangs heavy with killing parcels, yet a peace
Has settled over me, a windy trance
Upon my solitary soul. Below,
Bright insect trails trace their river-dance
Through asphalt courses. Houses, row on row
Are squarish anthills where dreams live and die
Unseen. A thousand thousand mortal men
Are fretting, struggling, hoping, and they vie
For all their neighbors' petty charms. Their end
I know too well, but what is that to me,
The bustling of their termite tragedy?

George Chadderdon © 2000