the dark navy hood of his jacket
stretches a few inches
past his forehead,
concealing his face

he pulls a wagon
full of blue salt
across the pavement
while a flurry of snow
falls around him

in a quick and deliberate rhythm
he tosses the salt
out like a serious flower girl
quietly ensuring
that it all goes
as planned

the white crane
with paper wings
like paper planes
sails up above
and down
the muddy milky brown
it changes flight
goes out of sight
but its peace
will never leave me

and there…harold dreamt,
he dreamed of a boat,
one with a brown bottom,
and a rusty green rutter,
and it spun
and it spun,

the siem reap river,
of sunkissed toffee color,
he sailed on and on,
and stared at his brother,

he looked up above from the boat,
straight up at the hot steamy sun,
and his large white eyes,
stared up at a bird,

it was white and small,
with slender yellow legs,
that held a grace,
unlike any other

the crane flew in one circle above his head,
harold watched as it plummeted to the brown water below,
and at the last moment of its decent,
it shot up and across his horizon,
until it vanished

there is a quick energy here
the scooters flow without caution
traffic courses like a delta
changing, dynamic in every moment

a city in the wake of pain
constructing, making anew
the streets are wet and *****
yet every bush is neatly trimmed