by Sarahana Chemjong

The landscape of a village ensconced in obscurity,
Where dwellers come and go. Its inhabitants running
Dry like the bottom of an empty well. Lost in a summer
Haze of unforgivable heat, the settlers settle like birds of
A feather. With crows in their eyes, wrinkles carving their
Body like a life lived and long-worn. Their hands shaped
Over each brick by brick of a house they would call
Home. Each crack in the pavement burned by the glowing
Sunlight, harsh and loving. Each turn and corner a myriad of
Puzzles that have the same answer, leading to each other like
A chain of unimaginable thought. The river beds alongside the roads
Rich with fauna and whispers of stories that are told to anyone
With a listening eye. The tales that tell of baby birds set
Free to fly among the vastness of the blue, blue sky with
a heavy-pressed heart. They soar, reaching unimaginable heights,
flying until they are hidden specks among the clouds, their tinkling laughs
left behind in the rustling of the gentle wind, their sorrow apparent
in the way the sun kisses each inch, every mile and stretch of the land.
The birds fly south for new haven but return every time – never forgetting the
Roots lain down for them to grow, and the sun still shines.