Shruti Navathe

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I miss the bicycles that take you places.  Tiny boys on oversized bikes leaning over the edge of guttering.  Wheels that push aside muddy waters and glide around faceted stones.  The clean lines of bicycle stands ramrod straight – pending commands.  The sly song the chain sings as it slips past.
I miss walking in warm rain.  One crazy family with a perpetually drenched flute.  Earth song creeping into welcoming pores – breaking up brown jumbles, carrying along newer greens.  The touch of trampled flowers rising to the sky.  The sigh as the air shifts to accommodate her sister as she falls.
I miss the roads built for trees.  Towering masts on the horizon of a flattened gray sea. Learning from rivers the unwisdom of pride.  The curvy conversation between greens, browns and gray – the complicated spiral that moves slowly, breaks tenderly and leads anywhere.
I miss the faces that deflect my own.  Walking down a street in bright pink and blending in.  Smiles that sidle along shyly – inquisitively probing eyes taking in every detail of my entire life.  The blanket of names that covers us all.  The mirrored room that reflects the shape of my back and my hands and eyes.

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