Between the dusted and broken sidewalk I found a butterfly wing–on the walk home.
Fly was no longer attached to its wing but wing wanted to get away from me, all the same. Wind blew it so.
Road to home, from Main street is long [1 KM], deserted — punctuated with big trucks plowing through and building materials strewn about.
Situated above the road is a bridge–connecting, Hong Kong-Macau-ShenZhen-Guangzhou –slowly being built by migrants.
Migrants– in the ‘waiting place,’ I see these people every day i walk to and from school. They lay between big trucks on bamboo mats. Two liter bottles hold tea for these people. Besides carrying these bottles of tea, they don’t have much.
One lady creates a cherry blossom cross-stitch as she waits. Waits for work, waits for a break, waits for food, waits to leave?
One man sleeps on the same mat every day on a swept up-rubble patch of road, sleeping, or staring at the sky.
Others sit on the railing– waiting/watching, waiting/watching, waiting/watching– for work.
Trucks still blazing through this road kicking up dust/rubble/rocks in these workers’ faces.
One man opened a fire hydrant for water the other day. Created a pool beneath, soaked his shirt, and proceeded washing it against a concrete stone.
I walk past these people/these faces every day. I want to high five them, give them some fruit, smile-wave, anything to make their faces look less longing/less bitter towards me–wearing my jumpsuit school uniform.
My butterfly wing made it home with me– didn’t take off on the wind.