I don’t know how it will end. I know it will never end. All is life and death, famine and glut.
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It’s not just the birds I know
singing from places I recognise,
landmarks I chart and check by sound—
The praying mantis stood up
and waved his thin front leg, searching for a foothold,
looking for a way out of this mess.
This is not a nothing day.
The pines are whistling,
cypress trunks squeaking in the wind,
cicadas have started to sing…
No feather will fall in quite the same way;
not in this spot, from that height,
to be caught between two heads of rye…