The streets, they lie.
Their names: Rolling Brook, Mountain Laurel, Pepper Hollow and Longview.
These are only meaningful as labels. Not descriptions.
I can hear no talking stream, smell no poignant flowers, walk in no forested depression or see no far reaching scene.
Instead the plethora of split level, 2 car garage homes is only interrupted by the carefully manicured monoculture lawns and sculpted, stone lined gardens.
The rolling brook is channelized and coddled with galvanized steel, the pavement stifling the talkative nature of the moving water.
Transformed and hybridized flowers bloom too late or too early, defying their ordinary tendencies, escaping their stony habitat
Any contoured relief is filled and tapered, defeating the natural topography and boring my eyes.
The highway bisects the longview, stunts the landscape and aches my ears.
I complain
And yet this is home.
