Progress

Live horizontal, twice alive: a flight
of swallows gathered for their passage, stretched
across a former field, now evened out

for yet another road. The place is full
of engines: shovels, graders, heavy wheels
upset the soft, red earth. A line of trees

got broken under infrastructure’s needs,
these days’ dictate of easy access; left
alone, a little to the side, a single oak

stands like the guardian of a distant past,
a relic, obsolete – and lost in play
a boy investigates the waste land, stark

and innocent of people. Before long
the swallows’ wings will stir the air. Next year
you will find neither boy nor swallows there.