A bus driver bleeps the horn
at a red Saudi that steals in front of the lumbering vehicle.

For a second birds rule the audio sphere.

Then a motorcycle scrounge of wannabe stunt boys churns past. I ignore the Instagram op and look over the trees.

Attention to the birds is all I want to pay.

What century could I escape to and not have been interrupted by the noise of progress, impatient to be anywhere but where it wasn’t?