City Lights

I stare out at the city skyline:
a melting yellow sun 
behind skyscrapers,
hints of pink and orange
shimmering in the distance.

Soon, the sun is gone
and darkish, gray-blue ink rushes across the canvas
of the sky,
Slipping over every bank,
store,
restaurant,
apartment,
and person,
setting the stage
for the stars.

Where I live, the stars
shine brighter than a thousand fireworks,
than a thousand camera flashes
and those blinding stage-lights—
they sing and dance
as millions of fireflies 
during those long, peaceful summer twilights,
And let the lonely soul
know they're not alone.

Here, the city-lights shine bright—
Alas, in their pride, they steal to center stage,
blurring out the velvety summer darkness,
dimming, fading stars out of the world—

I yearn to hear the night sky sing, yet
all I hear is the noise of heavy traffic,
ambulance sirens, incessant honks of 
impatient drivers:
the never-ceasing sounds of New York City,
surrounding me like thick, gray smog,
deafening my ears as I try to fall asleep.

I do not despise city noise, and city lights,
I simply am not used to them at twilight,
or steadily droning on throughout the night—
I think I'm slightly homesick, far from where
the night's quiet except for crickets' chirps,
and the occasional owl's call, or even
the wrath of crashing thunder 
and wind whipping through the trees
during a storm, and where
the stars always shine bright in the sky,
as dark as the depths of the ocean miles down.

Yet as my troubles simmer in my mind,
I suddenly realize a different set of notes;
and the chord turns from minor to major, 
a sweet harmony,
as the lights of the city around me 
strike me as beautiful, all-of-a-sudden,
like their own kind
of stars,
and the city noise comes together
into a strange kind of symphony,
wild and yet somehow soothing,
accompanying the city-lights
in their strange dance.

Perhaps the stars are not gone from sight:
they've simply changed their costume with the night.