The soul is sucked dry!” she cried. “But who needs a soul in the city?”
She looks out from “a place… dry and dusty*.” Ironically, the 15th floor.
She has been away from her home so long that the city is integrated with her being, her thoughts. City- molded, but not city-fed. It feeds upon those who stay this long — eyes stop investigating, brains stop reflecting, chips swallow braincells — a uniform diversity has absorbed her originality.
The last time she left, went home, she had forgotten the language.
Warmth, welcome and humanity had driven her back to the hub, the tower. Steel, concrete, glass. Traffic, litter, loneliness… safety.
What once was discordance, grate, jar, screech, is lullaby — the hum of humanity’s machine.
Downstream, upstream, Regal, Bayliner, pontoon, tri-hull, pontoon, fisher, Bayliner pulling an inflatable raft, children screaming, kayaks, pontoon floating bar scene. Jet skis racing. A Cigarette boat slows and turns back downstream. The river churns.
On the bluff I feel the agitation of the river — the flow impeded. Like the stream, I am pulled. My life a recreation of others.
Trumpeter Swans desert, in unison they search for peace. Eagles, shaken by chaos, return no more. No shore birds wade where there is no calm.