Look at the birds of the air

I bought pool noodles

and went to a creek with my friends.

Baby rapids flew us past rocks

on our orange and green life lines.

Children. We sought rest in reversion.

Fully clothed, dripping drops

down our legs, pooling in our underwear.

Our backs on asphalt that traded

gravel for dew. A road only

meant for white traveling trucks.

Three birds circled above,

so high but bits of ash,

dirt floating in wind.

Fire. We pointed and flailed

at their heights until they became

floaters in the eye.

Escapers of the world—these

Three girls. Running to it

to drown their furied frenzies.

Fighting to quiet the rampage,

minds smothering the constant

lists tracking their survival.

Yet, three birds soar

forever, to nowhere

and everywhere. Their thoughts

do not follow the cycles

They make in the sky.

All rests before them, the mouse—

Dinner only considered

when eaten. No escapes

or scribblings of future.

They are upheld skyscrapers above.

Am I not more valuable than they?