There is a tiny window on the top floor of a tiny house. On the bottom floor, their eyes are like illuminated targets on my shirt, pinning me with their judgement. I relocate but the snipers perceptions never fade. They still threaten me. Back to the window. Its as empty as a Buddhist monk but I can imagine the days when she longingly peers past the snipers, past the tall building with the white railing, the staircases that lead towards nothing. She floats beyond the clouds, up, up, up, grasping like a waving flag in the wind towards something, nothing in particular.
She sits alone. Quietly. The girl with the world in her eyes, an uncharted disposition in position for that great big something wearing a cloak of hazy but perceptible unknown. What does the robin see from her birds eye view? A street below, tiny ants aimlessly drifting. A green grass haven in the midst of an urban desert, pyramid developments growing like vines towards the sun, each one a microscopic tower of Babylon. I want to wait out the storm behind her window, her shield, her mirror to the world around her. The people around her. Don’t they say that eyes are the window to the soul?