American Beauty


Lying on my bed, five stories up, I watch the sky.

Colorful prayer flags flutter from the opposite rooftop, and clothes dry on the line. Birds dance on the currents of air, the larger ones chasing the smaller ones. I feel high, alone, anonymous, and free.

I watch a small square of red paper fluttering through the air. It twists, lifts, wobbles and coasts on an invisible breeze. It drops suddenly, disappearing from sight, and then lifts majestically, appearing behind the brick wall of the neighboring rooftop. It has found its own piece of sky, and it dances freely, unaware of its own existence.

Finally, once I realize how long it has been dancing in this particular patch of sky, it drops, sliding on a downward spiraling air current, and is gone.

I sigh and sit up, ready to write. When I lose my train of thought several minutes later and look to the sky for inspiration, it is back, square, red, and dancing.


One Response to American Beauty

  1. sheila says:

    This prose reads almost like a poem. I liked it!

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