We  would worry about tree.
No slum kids mocked birds.
It  lost words from its mouth.
The birds looked elsewhere.
Gardener was grateful man.
He had  words for the winter,
Less autumn leaves to rake.

The crows were all exposed.
You saw  white inner bodies
Below the wet black feathers
Under  a tongue lashing rain.

We would look up to  blue sky
And find silver fish swim in it
With no more leaves between.
We worry  less about  our tree.
It had  now freer birds to host.
Slum kids mocked elsewhere.


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