The Urban Jungle

As I stand on a small hillock, away from it, the first things that grab my attention are those tall concrete sequoias that touch the sky, or rather seem to hold back the sky and the clouds that brush against their heads. No branches, but little black rectangular semi-transparent leaves that reflect light into the dark depths of the shadows cast by these giants. Amidst them are the small shrubs of steel that condescend the little cubic weeds scattered around.

There are noises, strange sounds that sometimes overcome the cacophony. Most of them are from the rubber hoofed wildebeest, grazing on that grey Savannah, sometimes obscured by the thicket. Once in a while, there’s the roar of a mutant V6 or V8 that sends the lesser animals scurrying off the black turf. It is usually accompanied by this streak of black and orange, if not some other colour.

Then there are the giraffes, often feeding the sequoias to be. Hippopotamuses are always in the vicinity, their valuable grey dung used to add to the stature of the sequoias and the shrubs and to line the sides of the black turf.

Strangely it is the ant that controls all. When not on wildebeest, they are in trumpeting elephants, wide bodies that lumber about, stopping every 15 to 20 minutes. Sometimes, they’re in frantic little beetles or zippy two legged pond skimmers.

If you’re lucky, you can spot these green alien beings that seem so out of place. Green ... a strange colour. In the city. The city. It’s always alive, always awake, even when it’s dark, though, that’s how it always seems to be. Always awake. Never dead ... but dying, fading away into the darkness it makes, and brings upon itself.