Only the birds carry the wind.

With shrieks and shrills, they deposit
their carriage amongst the palm trees, who—
messengers themselves—gorge
and sweep the leftovers into cracks of
white-plastered windows. Dust,
remnants of historic footstep fabrics, plays
as if she has a choice; and with breathless youth
flaps tiny wings and succumbs to the breeze.

Dust is a messenger, too,
brought long ago by the birds.
The task for Dust is to linger
long enough for a finger to trace
the blades of a ceiling fan and crease
a brow or two.

They, who sing songs
when aware of no danger, who soar
evenly amongst crimson sunsets, who drop
tiny bombs of paradise on shiny skull caps,
carry a message from the gods
demanding attention.

One can get swallowed
by the dust, the birds say.
One can get swallowed,
by only seeing danger, the palms say.
One can get swallowed
by not looking up, the gods whisper.


 

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