MARIANNE SZLYK

Maryvale Park Without Birds

Today, like any other evening,

I walk to the park.  I take my post
on the deck, stare into the swamp.
No birds trouble the reeds.  No birds
dart slantwise over the banks
of bush and flowers, across water.

I hear the hum and whine of bugs,

almost high-pitched enough to pass
for some new bird.  A dragonfly
touches a reed.  A young mother
calls to her children in Spanish.
No birds emerge from trees, here or

in neighbors’ yards.  I wonder if
this is the future of pest-free,
weed-free lawns and asphalt sprawl.  

A bumblebee lights on yellow

flowers.  Perhaps it is a drone
sent to gather pollen for
honey for tea in Potomac.

I stagger out, away from this
future.

On my way home, I see birds dart
above, clear fences,  and then swing
across imperfect lawns.  A girl
offers me five blue jay feathers.

2050 

Now only the rich travel,

riding the clouds and currents,
watching news of finance and fashion,
eating meat from real pigs and cows.

Below the eternal turbulence,
clouds like erasure, week-long rains,
people stay put, eating seaweed,
greens, corn, jellyfish,
glowing candies
infused with seventeen vitamins
and eight minerals.  

Some remember travel, the feel

of air at the top of a mountain,
of air in a plane cabin,
the smell of exotic spices, molds
on damp wood, grasses, the smell
of the restroom on a plane.

A few read about these places.
Others watch old videos
on devices.  One or two
take light rail
to the end of the line.

All but the rich stay put
like tiles in a gorgeous mosaic
that no one will ever see
whole again.

******************copyright Marianne Szlyk.