Good Grief

By Andrew R. Duckworth

Sunrise is the best time.
People are absent in the equation-
Still murmuring their morning speak,
Still facing the mirror in grief.
Not me.
I’m already on the road,
Looking on at the orange glow
Crawling up over the horizon
As that reel brings in the orb
That lights the day.
For a moment, I feel like a vampire
As I’m forced to bring my shade down,
Look in awkward ways when stopped
At a stop light,
Avoiding the eye shattering rays.
But, for the most part,
I’m alone on the road.
It is quiet.
No speeding from anxious drivers,
Honking and wailing over their engine
To somehow get the traffic to move.
Just the incoming light of day,
Slowly showering the city,
Building by building,
Brick by brick,
Minutes to go before
The world turns upside down.
In a month, the peace of sunrise
Will be demolished by the roar
Of the highway nearby,
Just as the cement trucks
Have interrupted the peace
Of the roads nearby as expansion
Continues as it must, apparently.

Soon, we will be unable to see
The western pastures from our window
As new developments strip the land
Of its natural green,
In favor of the gray cement
And dark rooftops.
I can already hear the hammers,
See the frames being built,
New restaurants, new storefronts,
Newness for the sake of newness.
What is new is interesting,
What is new is fresh,
Come and take it,
Come and taste it.
No more where the west begins,
Now, the ‘unexpected city.’
Laughable at best.
Cowtown has become asphalt
And steel and glass,
A place where the cowboy
Has been relegated to the museum.
He would never recognize this place,
His cattle replaced by cars
And fancy signs.
I moved to this place
Only a few years ago, but already
I can see character stripped away
By the scraping hands of commerce
As new foundations get laid
And frames get made
And streets get paved.

The land’s spirit is broken,
The grid scars of the whip showing
On its broken and blistering skin.
I may live near the city,
But I’m no city boy.
Nor am I hostile to city culture.
Cities have their place,
But the cities keep inching their
Feet, little by little,
Upon the plain.
Soon, pastures will be gone,
The green spaces will be “parks,”
And the high rise will be king,
Even on this little ledge
As we look cautiously at
the cliff behind us.
There is still a lot of land
Left across the mighty state of Texas
But as the cities grow,
The pastures shrink
And the magnificence of the land
Must begin to sweat, as it’s
Existence depends on
An end to needless expansion.

Sunset brings an end to day.
Sunrise is better.