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Fading beneath soaring wings:

Streets, trees, rooftops;

All bleeding into one another

And sinking into the opaque dullness

of the urban from above.



So long to a high-rise horizon,

And the cricket-like chirping of the nighttime traffic;

Goodbye to a land of pavement,

And apartment walls as thin as the paper hanging upon them;



Farewell to the rattling change cups

Of the street people,

And to the traffic signals

Everyone ignores;



No more rooftop getaways,

Or trying to get on the train that never comes to

a complete stop at the station,

No more bay breezes blowing

softly in the night,

Or hours spent trying to escape the city

on the narrow grass divide between

the Charles and the expressway;



All things most could not possibly care for;

Things people would rather live without;

Yet amidst the landscape of cement and stout structures,

One becomes accustomed to such intrusions into life,

These things evolve into expectations; necessity;

And forces the realization that one cannot grasp silence,

Until he has known the steady vibes of perpetual sound.



The voice over the intercom is the last reminder

of the comforting turbulence of city life,

As the return plunge into suburbia begins.

Drifting into a place void of sound,

A mind trying to fill the space;

Compensate for the distance afar.



The smells of traffic, trains, cafes;

Replaced by freshly cut grass.

The sounds of cars, tourists, the endless sea of walking masses-

Don’t exist here...

Not in the sprawling arms of suburbia.