The evidence of wind is in the scarves
Of people waiting for the bus
My village lies there in all its stony composure under the first thunderstorm of fall. It meant cold weather was coming, creeping in like a procession of ghosts under the rumbling sky.
It’s not weather or seasons I’m really thinking about,
merely the time of year, in a year of big changes,
when the best, most awaited change is about to happen
Once with my father
I sat in its shade.
We were coming from Isfahan
And wanted to go to Ferdows
From the desert.
I am an outsider and always will be no matter how long I come and spend my summers here. I don’t mind; I like my existence framed this way, with enough sunlight to comfort my skin and aging body, and my ears thirsting to hear French laughter, and French whispers below my window.
it is sacred, the way
soil clinging to the seed
of a new shoot
pushing out of the earth
Brett Wilkins: Wildlife Defenders Cheer Restoration of Migratory Bird Protections Gutted Under Trump
Over the last 50 years, the population of North American birds has declined by an estimated three billion birds.