nature as observed at zip code 75204

I see the end of the day drawing near through double glazed windows―giant man-made eyes for this exoskeletal shed. Inside this maternally motivated machine, men serve three meals at clockwork precision. Reminiscent of military monotony as green shells move along in the exact same pattern morning, noon and night. Latexed fingers fiddle on disinfected surfaces, condiments stacked individually-sealed for the sake of hygiene and convenience, lightweight polystyrene containers for every conceivable purpose―easy to manufacture, even easier to dispose.

Waste.

I flee from this artificial womb to breathe authentic pollution under the pastel sky. The relentless humming of air-conditioning units pumping heat out into this evening’s humidity compete against the roar of airplanes aiming for Lovefield’s runways. Passing fruitless trees on Apple Street I follow the nervous fluttering of wings across the manicured lawns. Tension rustles through the solitary trees in every concrete courtyard I pass by. My heart resonates with the anticipation of her unabashed display.

Red berries hang like drops of blood from the contrasting green branches forming a natural vault above my head. Dried orange, yellow, brown shapes edged with saw-tooths, others like five-fingered hands crunch beneath my feet as I deviate from my original route. Avoiding the chloride fumes from the fake fountain I turn right into the arched colonnade where I suspect to find raw nature at work despite the perfect octagonal terraces cascading onto concrete.

Stripped tail feathers flash ahead when she swoops unexpectedly in this predatory dance. Taunting her next victim blatantly she flies straight into the center of a gathering of doves―flushing them all out, dispersing radially in a tapping of wing tips and petrified cooks. She whisps over my head, a well-rehearsed ritual before escaping from my line of sight.

I run into the president’s courtyard. Where the bluebird lives―north of the minimalist magnolia trees where the Macadamia tree has a power socket attached to its trunk. She cuts further left and disappears behind the terracotta tiles and leaves me standing alone, wingless―stuck to the orthogonal pedestrian paths back to my cold Cappuccino-coffee-cocktail in the polystyrene cup.

I walk back with itchy hands. Needles pricked at lazer-beam precision. Measured deposits of bio-chemical warfare against me. Strategically preventing my blood from clotting before my assailant could get a could swig of it first. Scratching the tiny bumps where I find evidence of me joining the food-chain at the lower end.

To my surprise, I enjoy this irritation. Like the plucked feathers that lie strewn beneath the green canopy, these marks on my hands testify to inescapable death on this planet. Tragic to some but to me the gateway to discovering nature as it was intended originally.