Finding Happiness: November’s Observation Writing

Through the Car Window, New Delhi

A child crouches barefoot beneath a concrete wall

beside the black asphalt, traffic and fumes.

She scoops up dirt with her bare hands, piles and pats it

into a pan, then dumps out the grains and begins again. There

under the freeway overpass the powdery music of dirt

whispers through the cracks of her fingers as she listens

and listens to the calm of its voice, holding it

like satin in the palm of her hand.

Through the Car Window

A child crouches barefoot beneath a concrete wall

beside the black asphalt, traffic and fumes.

She scoops up dirt with her bare hands, piles and pats it

into a pan, then dumps out the grains and begins again. There

under the freeway overpass the powdery music of dirt

whispers through the cracks of her fingers as she listens
and listens to the calm of its voice, holding it

like satin in the palm of her hand.

Through the Car Window

A child crouches barefoot beneath a concrete wall

beside the black asphalt, traffic and fumes.

She scoops up dirt with her bare hands, piles and pats it

into a pan, then dumps out the grains and begins again. There

under the freeway overpass the powdery music of dirt

whispers through the cracks of her fingers as she listens

and listens to the calm of its voice, holding it

like satin in the palm of her hand.

Through the Car Window


A child crouches barefoot beneath a concrete wall

beside the black asphalt, traffic and fumes.

She scoops up dirt with her bare hands, piles and pats it

into a pan, then dumps out the grains and begins again. There

under the freeway overpass the powdery music of dirt

whispers through the cracks of her fingers as she listens

and listens to the calm of its voice, holding it

like satin in the palm of her hand.

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