The wind chill in March
was at its *** end,
the sun in the east
half lit the murkier sky
of that morning
the cloudy patterns
seen through brittle and brown
branches
of the maple trees,
surrounded
a weird silence of forlorn.
the birds left
their broken nests,
flew away to the far end,
paralleling man's flying machine.
It was a scenic beauty,
blended with
technology and ecology.
Yet, the nature's creation
competed with man’s,
a bird from the flock,
plunged down
ablaze, ripped apart
plaintively,
with a sound.

Narinder