One part persons, four parts machines, seventeen parts brick mortar and steel. A dash of feral critters. A touch of smart devices. Garnish with wires and radio waves.

Our city creature is a strange tangle.

Sun rise; her persons sift into machines and flush into town, windshields tinkling; her buildings absorb them. Breath, mon amour.

Her roots throb with garbage. An exchange of resources.

What is it you want from us? We give you everything.

Sun down; trickle back to our homes.

What does she do with all of our efforts? If she squanders them, would we ever know?

And what is it you think about, mon amour?

I look at her. Foolish thoughts, foolish thoughts.