And then posed under the branches of the willow tree,
We’re two birds of colors blue and red,
And under the blanket of its leaves,
The tree seemed to sing nature’s anthem,
And the sun shined down and the sky opened up,
And the wind blew the branches of the tree,
So that it seemed to be waiving it’s flag
So many years behind the pretext of elaborate email subject lines and the American dream,
Had I forgotten to listen and see,
Or did the birds always pose in freedom’s colors and sang song for which I wouldn’t kneel?
How long were these things really here?
Was it a bank who planted this tree?
Because carved on the wood are heights of children we did not meet, Whether evicted or gone with the wind,
I was saddened that wherever they had gone,
they weren’t able to take their tree
All we wanted was an ocean accessible by backdoor, sprinklers and hoses,
And maybe a dog,
And a floor blooming green,
In which we could lay under the shade of a tree
But we were so busy to notice the bees pollinating, the clovers were pulled so that our lawn could stay green,
Mom and dad working long hours,
Long school hours longer still,
Living in fear that a missed payment would mean adding our names to that list on the willow tree,
And when the birds noticed me,
They were ready to fly,
I reminded them of the rapid movements of early rush, school buses and cars
Was our noise brutal?
Was our progress incomplete?
After the realization hidden in suburban truths I headed back to the city and noticed something crueler still,
Hidden in the canopy of perfectly distanced trees,
They looked below and we had disappeared,
Our trees had grown taller but did not swing with the wind,
And now too do I notice and we are loud but we don’t sing
Their anthem had drums and trumpets,
The whole of nature seemed to cheer,
The original American spirit,
Not American,
Nor human,
But something broader still,
Maybe just like nature creates the wind,
Or makes it rains when it need be,
It sent us this encrypted message in the form of a sneeze,
So that we could look out from our windows,
And grow bored from our screens,
Because now that it is silent,
Do they sing louder to remind us of our sins
words_martin hidalgo illustration_rachel rader