I found myself a piece of hidden land this evening, away from the ring road, where one couldn't hear traffic.
Instead there was the desolate noise of the solitary hammer for a home being built.
And yet this home already belonged to little chirpy birds, hovering eagles with their stark cries.
All reaching a feverish pitch as the night crawlers meet their fellow day breakers, in a rushed fluttery of activity.
Who said this land isn't already a home, to so much more than just you and me. And who ever said peaceful nature only meant that which is already dead.
It is not so, amongst the swaying trees, the movement of open air, from the growth of the smallest blade of grass, to the firmness of sun dried mud, it can be felt all of it. And you know, this too I'd already your home.
And that hammer is the sirens cry, of those that come to destroy.