It’s true we’re cut off from it
but the distant crows call to
the deep creases of my brain,
ancient ancestral memory.
Shimmering oak leaves
against the sky–
and I know of course we breathe
the same air. We’re porous
to the world around us, and though
in the city there’s always the roar
of traffic, we can still make out
birds alive in the trees,
the world in all its technicolor beauty.