Grandpa Hawk perched in a tree

looked down at me on a stump

gazing at fields being primed

for the advancement of the times

and asked unassumingly:

What is in your heart?

And so I began to speak;

I dread this alien rat race

mirrored in congested big city phlegm

manifest-destiny all over again

mixing into this country world

like oil with water

strangers with shark-like expressions

convoluting the landscape

in Hummers Volvos SUV’s

along with their collective wannabe’s

I dread this transformation of new homes and buildings

expanding like popcorn no locals can afford

I dread this attack of the new-age Borg;

Resistance Is Futile-You Must Assimilate

I dread these pimps of poorly planned progress

for pathetic self-profit

I dread taking scenic drives in the country

thundering with traffic thick as bees on honey

being forced to find places away from

familiar places where technology

yet has targeted its thoughtless tentacles

and capitalist clowns have yet proclaimed

their arrogant game of eminent domain

places where open spaces still be free of idiot boxes

blasting gangster obscenities

where no yuppies have fenced off areas once always open and free

of eyes of steel and robotic gates and fortresses of concrete

high as prison walls

and grandpa Hawk looked at me with eyes of wisdom and said;

listen,

listen to us

winged ones

four leggeds

insects

trees

rivers

as we sing our death

songs,

then grandpa Hawk flew off into the blue,

and I rose from the stump

for a bulldozer was coming

and I could no longer stay.