Returned from the city that had welcomed me home after
two decades in the desert; its moist green arms opening,
with a river that flows from the sea.

But the zombies of economy have risen with the skeletons
of construction dancing on rootless foundations as if risen
from underground amidst a cacophony of transportation.  

With moon in mind, eyes drawn to what's left of the path,
as summer's tall plants lean over and hum to each other,
a crow flew down and squawked in my ear:

Of friends I may have many, but not the kind that sing.