As I stood on the roadway, in the beat before red to green, I took stock of the air. Dense with high ppm.
My lungs, like that of the earth, have grown accustomed to the quality in which they are subjected. A cough is the only protest, and yet we carry on.
Beeping and high rpm clutch work, drowned out the sound of a nearby song thrush as the light faded, becoming louder in the breaks between cars and buses. I wonder if that little bird had a cough too.
The zooming, zipping, beeping, and breaking, while lit by lamps on long lengths, seems exaggerated as the natural light fades. No more faces are seen inside the vessels. Just winding lights carrying little coughs forward in time.
