Potential

A crow flies and a clock ticks. Fulfilling their potential. I look out over my city. Barges and mountains, rolling boxes of steel. And somewhere below the puffed clouds and skittering squirrels and flittering birds rises up the shouts of children at play. Somewhere down there in that grouping of Maples and brown, weathered rooftops are the screams of children, playing. I am above, seeing and hearing the city — metal whirrs of cars going everywhere, distant hums of barges, the silence of the mountains. And I hear the children, screaming. They are filling up and releasing all at once — desire is never a thing to chase unless the chase is the desire. In vehicles of such shrieking bodies, in such wondering eyes, such hearts filled all the way up with everything, there is no room for potential.