We’re told of forests and woods,

Farms and acres and fields.

But the only plants we know grow up from underneath sidewalks,

Popping up between cracks only to be trampled on,

And the occasional tree bold enough to declare:

I live here.

This is my home.

We hear of the distant wind blowing all the way from the horizon

But our breezes most often come from buses whizzing past.

Dust and grit are everywhere.

Dirt, though, is as foreign as the stars invisible behind the glow of city lights and smog.

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