Words under Pressure #9

Country Child

The city-born have no urge
For heights, green scents, or wind.
For silence at night, under
The fox’s solitary scream

The city-born are pleased
By architecture, light on water,
Bridged, boundaried, well-behaved.
All green contained, surrounded.

The city-born don’t know
The warmth of a fresh-laid egg,
The fish you caught yourself
Simple food eaten on hilltops.

Poor things.

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