Immy

She is like a pigeon,
free and elegant,
soaring high above our heads,
unaware of the scorn she recieves,
from jealous humans,
wishing they could be like her,
calling her a pest,
knowing full and well,
she is beautiful.

People are books,
filled with stories to tell,
begging to be heard,
and when you open them,
the words come pouring out,
filling the blank spaces in the air,
filling your mind with the things they have to say,

I get on the bus,
for the first time,
it's dark,
but people have lights on,
holding them up to their newspapers,
their books,
I smile at the boy across the aisle,
and he smiles back,

I feel the sun on my face,
glowing,
almost burning my skin,
I tuck my fingers under the straps of my backpack,
and pull it up farther onto my back,
I can feel the dampness on my back,

"Hey mom?" I called, "Come look at this!"
My mom called back, saying she would be a second; she wanted to take one last picture of the view before we headed down. Instead, my brother jogged over,

Yellow jacket,
red rain boots,
she pulls her hood up,
covering her face,
a kind face,
with gentle, sloping eyes,
and a delicate button nose,
which expands with every tired breath,
she runs,
away from her problems,