november writing challenge: Day 1

Day 1: A Walk Down Your Street Through the Eyes of Someone Else

Over ten years now, I've watched these places grow. Humans have come and gone, built and buried and argued over trivial things, like names and borders. I'd like to say it troubles me more, but it simply can't be helped. They'll never see the world the way we do.

From up here I could pluck the trees and carry them with me, all the way down to the equator, so they wouldn't lose their leaves during the harsh, Canadian winter and like my plumage, never lose their brilliant life.

I fly south when it gets cold and damp, ignoring borders and avoiding metal monstrosities humans use to get a glimpse of how we feel. I return to melting slush and tired faces, speaking a different language than the people I've observed during the winter, yet never as beautiful as my nomadic song.

In time, the snow melts and I'm coaxed out by the smells of lilacs and rain-soaked leaves. The sounds of a not-so-distant racetrack are overlaid by the occasional moo of a bovine feeling the springtime air after months of solitude. It's a strange little town, to be sure. But I've come to see it as my own.

It's easy to get lost in thought staring towards the river they call Grand. With it's dirt and grime, grand isn't the word I would use for it, necessarily. But perched up on this hill, overlooking farms and distant forests and the morning frost fades, it certainly gives a grand feeling.

The leaves reach a deep green as the temperature swells in the summer, and the sounds of motorcycles racing to the Great Lake Erie nearby soon join the chorus of racecars and cows. The air is thick with humidity and pollen now, but the forests are lush and silent. Here in the city of pine and oak is where I find my refuge until it's time to watch the sun be swallowed by the ebbing water.

As it turns to autumn, I know my time here grows short. It doesn't take long for the temperature to plummet and the leaves to turn, trying as they might to match my golden feathers. Frost lines the riverside grass, and the motors and cattle fall silent. I look longingly down the river, wondering if perhaps next year I could fly all the way to it's source and back again.

When the first snows fall, I'm already long forgotten, a simple curiosity until I return next spring. The long flight south doesn't seem to stretch so far as I observe many towns and many rivers and I find myself wondering if they, too, are just as grand.

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A/N: Wooooh! So this was totally late since I've been really sick with medical-related stuff this weekend and also reading week just finished and I did..... almost none of the work I was supposed to. But that's okay! This is November Writing Challenge Day 1! Enjoy!!!

CODE BY TESSISAMESS