Cyta

The call of the muezzin, drifting over the wall, mixes with the odors of diesel, cooking oil, and humanity, as I watch a lone kite flying above low houses, a smear of red across dun colored hovels, crouched against barren mountains, jagged like broken molars, and imagined it to be a sun spotted apparition, the mazy soul of the city, tethered, wind whipped, straining, and I long to sever the string, turn it aloft to jetstreamed freedom, high cried, tear dried, childhood... denied, and only barely notice, the kite, torn, landfallen, twisted on a high wire like a kestrel pinioned, and the sun sets.