We walk joining this running conversation
High-pitched, in low wind of a winter sky.
Our bodies join shouts across the blue sky
In white smoke trails jet planes left behind.
We are following birds from different sky
As fingers fly to white guests from Siberia.
They coming here to nest to make chicks
In our brooding banyan trees, drop white
Round spots on their ponderous shadows.
As we walk on we have this queasy feeling
That sometime down we will get dropped.