Roost
A story inspired by the poem, ‘Hawk Roosting’
View the ground from up here. Below me, the ground stretches endlessly in all directions, a barren landscape of drab outhouses, broken by the occasional skyscraper. The day to day battle, a percentage so slim, but I was here. I reside in the revered top floor, an oasis of safety among the storm of the city, the highest and the best; omnipotent and omniscient. But how did he do this, they ask. From the very bottom, to the very top? A sewer boy simply shouldn’t become the top. Touché. But the one path of my flight is direct, upwards. The sun is behind me, I sit in the tallest tree, and plan to keep things like this.
React!