That traffic is an illusion

produced by human ingenuity

brilliant ignorance of true progress

a mesmerizing whoosh

hidden by trees.

Here

on this creek

where water moves lazy-like

cicada songs are real

a snorting deer

tweeter tweeters

fading light flecks

over moss-covered rocks

brown earth banks

downed branches

a pale sky.

Life happens here

recycled and upcycled

older than time

younger than tomorrow

unending, unending, unending

let me be here

at the edge of nowhere

the heart of everywhere

this—

this is real.