Too Flat

"I never liked the city, too flat," my mother explained,
and I agree. Smoke and smog cloud the air like
dust bunnies under my bed.
Cars honk their horns, radios sound off like sirens,
and everybody shouts because everyone else is too loud.
Not at all like the rooster who crows in the morning,
the cow who bellows in the afternoon,
and the crickets who recite bedrock poetry at night.
Shiny lights from awkward street posts and office windows
lit 'til the crack of dawn never rest like the sun and the moon.
Nature knows its appropriate times and schedules.
You won't find the stars or birds confused.
The city is a jungle, like the ones you hear about in story books,
but my home flows with the gentle trickle of the creek water,
whistling titmice, and the chickadees.
Nothing is more sacred than horse's schedules
and my mama's blueberry cobbler,
save the One who made them all.