Here along Pili Drive
I sit on an immovable rock
a rock as hard as my pelvis
both sandwiching the thin fat and skin covering my bum
Behind me
a constant stream of vehicles
vans, cars, motorcycles
you name it
all bound home to hundreds of families
In front of me
the smell of wet grass and mud
conquer my nostrils, advance toward my lungs
begging for more an aftertaste
of shells, and tadpoles, and cricket eggs
Speaking of which
oh, the crickets
tiny sirens under a see of grass
alluring, consuming
what is left of the soundscape
A war
between the sounds of Nature
and the sounds of machines
for which my ears and temporal lobe
are the battleground
I have no doubt
you know who wins