an indistinct pang of guilt
when i hear birds chirping in the sun
and they sound nothing like the ones back home
and yet everything about them reminds me
of home

unbeknownst to these birds,
their chatter carries me across a continent
and across a sea
to a home where there are pocket sized versions of my family and i
where my grandmother is busying herself in the kitchen
and my uncle fiddles with the tiny TV facing the living room
filled with a cast of colorful characters
much brighter than anything this TV could give us

unbeknownst to these birds,
they carry me to a sand filled tent
where a single ray of sunlight enters from a gap in the entrance
and illuminates the book in my hands
and outside, their chatter creates a beautiful symphony
punctuated by the crash of waves on the shore
unbeknownst to these birds,
they warm my heart far more than any sun could

i hate these birds
the ones in my plastic backyard, outside my plastic house
guilting me into remembering;
this is not a home,
this is not my home.