Reflecting Windows
From high above us
How bombastic the scaffold retching
As lightheaded, tethered by ropes hold purchase twenty floors up
As the daring squeegee away the grime and smear
Of a December chill.
With no way of opening the fixed windows
Mirror-tinted shades of clouds
Peering down like steads
Of a Roman chariot race
Their nostrils pump the threatening air earthward.
Like a Dali painting of absurdity
Occupants of dark office cubicles
Remain bent over their marvelously insipid work
Trusting that slavish servitude will keep their lives lit
Skywalkers across the way wave
As window washers take their lunch break
Of bologna and cheese sandwiches
While roiling clouds unleash ancient whip-cracking from above
Melodiously merging with echoes of long-ago Native American people’s chants
Reminding all that nature knows well the game of survival
Few walking the concrete canyons below comprehend
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And do they hear the loud thump! As some migrating bird mistakes the reflection in the glass façade to be a fellow flock mate only to crash onto himself and plummet to his death and the rats below.
Or from his lofty nest atop a gargoyle on a century-old building the Peregrine falcon, accustomed to the turmoil of sound and people on the ground dives at suicide speed to catch a pigeon off guard in mid-flight and then, carry the bird to his waiting offspring and mate for life to sustain them another day in the big city, now their home.
Ron