Nature Conscious: Clocks

do you remember —

when first we met the weavers?

beyond the crisp-aired groves

of eucalyptus trees, tall, thin, two-tone,

was their pond.

haldi-crowned, eager as beavers,

they flitted and darted

and adeptly constructed

their fleeting homes—

that morning in November.

a stem here, a frond there,

an ancient rhythm, played with flair.

transfixed we gazed and gazed

till our eyes had had their fill;

that morning in November,

the weavers wove Time still.

we left for our alarms and routines

and beige-boxed minutiae.

gears turned. clocks ticked.

six months passed —

maybe a year, maybe two —

before we paid another visit.

a coppersmith barbet mourned

atop a barren, tangled mass.

the bough was a ghost town,

each house a frozen husk.

maybe they had found a new haunt,

or maybe it was a primal disgust

at all the new detritus in their pond;

but I could hear the clocks —

I could hear the clocks ticking down.

at midnight, when we fly,

all of us and you and I,

naught but empty

brick and ash

and cement and stone

and glass and metal

and wood

will remain.

Nature Conscious is a series built from reader contributions. It is a collection of fieldnotes, moments or brief encounters with the wild, expressed through words, art, music, photographs or poetry. The series is curated by author and guest editor Aasheesh Pittie. 

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