In the empty lot--a place
not natural, but wild--among
the trash of human absence,
the slough and shamble
of the city's seasons, a few
old locusts bloom.
A few woods birds
fly and sing
in the new foliage
--warblers and tanagers, birds
wild as leaves; in a million
each one would be rare,
new to the eyes. A man
couldn't make a habit
of such color,
such flight and singing.
But they're the habit of this
wasted place. In them
the ground is wise. They are
its remembrance of what is.
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