I visit them on the hill, thankful I’ve arrived.
The birds, full of life spirit, travel their highway
from bough, to rooftop, to phone line. Each path,
a contribution to the maypole dance. Colour and voice
woven to create a single web, a single song.
The cars, their dull mechanics, whine-gliding through the neighbourhood
tie this contrast around us.
Like a time-elapsed electric blue ribbon.
The breeze seeps over my cheeks, drips a tickle in my ear,
tuning me to the cicada-hum-rhythm of the twirling leaves.
The green glowing dome above.
Branches bow gently here. Here. There. And back,
bouncing in the wind, bouncing my attention from ‘then’ to ‘now’.
To myself, sitting under my trees.