Flutter

For a reason, I still can't fathom,
nor remember perfectly, an elder
once admonished me on throwing
whatever I could find, at the idle
urban river. The nala ran along
the high stony wall, reeds reaching
up desperately to catch a hold on
the warm baked surface of gray.
The water did not rush; it ebbed
and flowed, halted and ran gagging
on the excrement, plastic or the little
fish my best friend trapped in clear,
transparent ziplocks. Sometimes the
water would change colors, a
kaleidoscope of green or red or
whatever the suited man down the
river decided. His were not the only
decisions though; "Decide where you
are going to throw your pebble or don't,"
the clichéd elder of wisdom warned
"Those ripples might end up in America."

And they did. In America and Burma
and Bangladesh and all those other places,
my ripples crashed against their shores;
resounding with a tribute of my existence.

(A little pat for myself if any, that
terrorists haven't becomes naturalists
yet (the opposite might have happened
(the reason why WMD finding should revolve
around investigating playgrounds, schools,
homes and soporific, murky, urban rivers))).

Now that blue is no longer fashionable
for the sky, I am busy now. I catch
butterflies in sealed transparent jars;
hide them under my bed, almost silence
and all. You see, I have always had
a soft spot for Kansas and Dorothy.