Sunset comes in fiery blaze to the Irrawaddy. It stains the sky blood-orange, as if tearing open some ancient wound. The egrets cascade across the sky like angels, skimming the surface of the water, landing with open wings, their feathers tinted by the evening the color of – maybe – hope.
And so we have slipped into 2017, easily as the beat of an egret’s wings, another turn in sun, another tick of the clock. My last bird of the year was a spotted owlet, screeching through the Bangalore sky at 11:55. Now, back in Singapore, I hope for many more birds this year, more wildlife. More chances to breathe in the rainforest air. To feel my heart expand into the morning sky. To piece together a bird’s calls, to experience that flash of realization – oh. That’s what it was. I want more mornings vibrating with potential, more mist, more poems written by wind and wind alone.