The songbirds . . .
. . . are out to feed and sing. To my untrained ear it's cacophony, albeit a pleasing one. To her it means something much more. Velvet-fronted nuthatch, black-naped monarch, white-bellied erpornis, she ticks off the names on her fingers.
"Perhaps you can live here, when I'm gone," she says, "and write poems about love."
Although I am unable to leave the smog-filled vertical confines of the city to live on the edge of the river, I do write. Sometimes about her. And then bury those poems deep in the loose soil of my backyard.
a raindrop's journey
on the glass pane