The Creek

This is a short essay I wrote a year ago or so for a writing exercise:

I sit at my laptop, at the dining table which has never been used as anything but my desk and a clutter-pile, looking up and out the big picture window. Outside is my patio, all of which I can see from where I sit is the chain link fence that is a barrier to the concrete creek beyond. I cannot see the creek from where I sit, it is below my line of vision, but on the other side is a jumbled jungle of greenspace, gnarled trees with leaves just unfurling, the brown leaves of dead vines not quite ready to come out of winter hiding, shrubberies taller than most houses. There are a lot of dead and fallen branches. This is truly a wildscape and is never cleaned up by the urban planners. It seems enough that they lined this creek with concrete so that it can be a storm drain for the city. Through an opening in this jungle I see the back of a house in the neighborhood beyond the creek. The house seems to be empty, and I wonder about it. Is it for sale? Who used to live there and why is it abandoned? I long for a home of my own, with a yard in which to garden. Instead I sit in my apartment, gazing longingly at this seeming haven across the creek.