<p style="text-align: left;">Passing through<br>a bustling downtown intersection—<br>amidst towering buildings<br>happy couples<br>tourists<br>and hurried office workers—<br>While passing through there<br>I caught sight of her<br>Diminutive in stature<br>she was bent low, her fingers—<br>delicate as a pianist’s—<br>barely clinging to the rim of a trash bin<br>that loomed more than twice her size<br>as she rummaged<br>through the discarded refuse left behind by others<br>As is the way of the world<br>everyone simply walked on by<br>(perhaps even the birds would do the same)<br>Today, even the birds refused to stay near her<br>instead soaring away through the canyons of high-rises<br>I, too, walked past<br>Yet, on a sudden impulse<br>I turned back to look—<br>to see heartless morning sunlight of Manhattan<br>and nothing else enveloping her<br>as it lingered above her.</p>
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