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The uppermost branches are for wet sunrays
stealing away
from the dark cloak of passing night –
sometimes clouds weigh in from heaven, then peacocks                       frighten away other wings
with their mournful plaints –

but the bees, bound by their ethic of
industry and order, buzz in and out of their
long-necked mud-baked home on the
sturdy branch there –

a family of parakeets fuss over their bright new
babies as a cotton-soft dawn rolls off
bunches of shy leaves that will smile at
the evening sun – right now, they watch in wonder
the breeze of the fragrant face…
the night that lost faith…

a wise old hornbill looks on – the noisy parakeets, the
vain brown peacock, the babblers shrilling to the paused                   sunrays… the treepies chanting to the
honey-heavy bees…

It’s just another busy day at the green tree.

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