It reminds me of a map— each city marked
By a speck, a mere one-dimensional
Point on the windshield.

Land develops over time. People seem
To fall from the sky. A city grows, 
Taking the shape of a dome.

It only requires a whisper, a gentle
Vibration, a difference of opinion,
And the bubbles begin to burst.

Armies migrate, not east
To Norfolk, nor west to Richmond;
They always travel south
Along the common roads,

Devouring cities in one sweep: crashing,
But not burning. They pillage the land,
Increasing in wealth as they go.

Just as they appear to reach
Full momentum, God waves his
Angry hand, causing the innocent
Specks to reemerge.

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