The watchers

The dark bird tears the sky
With his cries—
He knows how I feel. 
Back bent, on the highest branch, 
Both him and I, 
With our cold eyes, 
We watch the world goes by. 
Four busy brown leaves
Race across with their
Clattering feet. Unaware that
They have disturbed the silence. 
I gaze blankly at the other leaves—
Green leaves—foolishly waving—
Would they be so happy if they know
The dates of their fate?

The dark bird cries
Again—to answer—
Then flies away.

Dale Chou
1999-12-20