Death of a Malabar Grey Hornbill
That car swishes
along the forest road.
Who cares
about a poor bird in the age of lynching?
Its beak with berries in it
freezes.
Its mate hears
wing-beats that never near.
A bird lover’s thoughts grow
from the carcass.
He climbs up
the tree trunk
and drops
figs
through the slit in the sealed nest.
Beaks rise
from the enervating hunger.
The world needs
his deed.
Drooped wings
are countless.
First published in Pif Magazine, US.
*A mother hornbill never comes out of the sealed nest until its egg hatches.
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