creeks and hills, primal expanse with aged

exuberance & sights of sparrows that once

rose to fan the sky with their willing wings.

Now, even the wind forgets how to fly. & the

birds, with broken joy, hide maps under their

wings; they flutter feebly on haggard cashew

trees, their beaks chopping & chiselling the

tender tendrils of the branches for food. Every

rising smoke falls them apart. & I’m asking why

this habitat, brimful of urban blessings, now

ruptures the birds’ habit of homecoming. Here

is the bittering of green songs once sweet in the

mouth òwìwí & the beginning of swansongs from

an orchestra of songbirds. Farewell, farewell—

again, farewell—to the once clean home, to the

odán trees now weeping on lonely nights as bats

no longer keep them company. They, too, are

witnessing how a place begins to fade before it

crumbles. Tomorrow, when I pass the mango trees,

I hope they will still throw their gold to the ground,

I hope silence will not pick the fruit but children

running with open arms.

òwìwí — owl

odán — oak tree