They get the wood from used pallets. The flames reflect off their faces at night, turning their faces orange, and enhancing the blackness that pours around them like honey. The smoke from the drums rises and mixes with the dust and mist.
There are some small sparrows that live in the cracks of the buildings near where I am. They twirl and skim across the hard ground, which is almost the same color as they are. They seem to be like friendly sprites, singing and bouncing their way between the sky and ground. I smiled to see them, and I wrote about them.
Just Looking at Birds
Tiny brown sparrows,
Same color as the ground,
A nothing color, like they are made from earth.
Flitting, dancing, posing,
Skimming like a crazy swarm of bad baby-angels,
Over dust and trash.
I scan around quickly.
Left, right, up, down.
Then I look at them.
They must be happy,
Like little imps,
Bringing back memories,
Of childhood and smiles and laughing eyes,
I can’t find any pain in them,
They are way too fast for me to touch,
But all I want is to feel their life,
Collect some joy that is in them.
Right now, I feel like I never loved anything more.