Sound of Scraping of Shovels

This banyan tree on the wayside pasture boughs cradling the nests secure the birds of blue return, verdant foliage making shade serene the scorched travelers rest awhile, the tree revels in pride. The winds of harsh time take the toll gaping trunk wrenches the soul, defoliated, the skeleton stands stripped. The birds don’t return, the travelers pass by, in sorrow the shadowless tree tracks the setting sun. Until the storm comes lays the tree on the ground it stood so long firm, shovels scrape the soil, fills the void, buries the last remains of its roots. In the twilight hours of loneliness as I see dark clouds gather on the horizon the sound of scraping of shovels returns to me louder and louder from the empty pasture where the banyan tree once was, and I wait for the storm. March 7, 2019