The building hums through wires I’ll never see.
A voicemail waits—my father, calling me.
I scroll the glow of strangers, lit in blue,
Until I catch myself—a stranger too.

A woman falls. I freeze beside the curb.
I move toward her, then stop—I might disturb.
She lies motionless. I skirt around the scene.
I walk away and scrub my conscience clean.

At home I thumb through suffering on a screen.
I donate once. I share. I feel less mean.
The algorithm feeds me someone new.
The woman on the curb fades. I scroll through.

I drove three hours just to lose the signal.
The trees don’t know my name. The quiet is primal.
I press my palm against the bark and wait.
Something answers back—too old to translate.

I breathe. The air tastes different—dirt and pine.
No popup asks if I am doing fine.
A deer emerges, stops, and holds me there.
It holds my gaze and doesn’t break its stare.

I drive back slowly. The signal returns.
A notification blinks. Something in me burns.
I merge onto the highway, join the flow.
Tomorrow, I’ll forget what the trees know.

Author’s Note: Revised 12/29/2025