Rachel Kuanneng Lee, Singapore
on a lookout for the crested serpent eagle, we pad through its home,
an alcove of greens and browns, untouched yet
by the sharp greys of the neighbourhood blocks closing in.
you spy something—a thick wire, metal-made, sprouting from the earth.
it rises and then curves back down,
stout steelworm burrowing skywards, then returning to the soil.
you ask what it is. in jest, i say,
this is the door to a secret passage.
a bird lands just so, and out pops a stage.
follow the path, it leads to a cavern—
the birds sing there, like bards in a tavern.
a watering hole for birds!
we laugh,
both much too old for make-believe.
gradually, the thunderheads gather and we don’t find the eagle.
instead, i find the wire worm again and prod it with a toe.
they’ve decided to go ahead with that subway line underneath all this, you know?
the atmosphere swells;
we walk quickly, leaving the exposed forest behind.
under eaves of leaves, the birds will find shelter.
the sky bursts and we break into a run, soles slapping the wet, black asphalt
until we are safe under our grey canopies. you don’t ask me about the secret cavern.
i want you to ask so i can tell you that when the trees cave and the steel lines tunnel,
that’s where there’ll be—
every one of them. we’ll find each bird sound.
the chinese hwamei they caged is unbound,
the red-whiskered bulbul sings for itself,
the cygnets and ducklings—all in good health.
and perhaps we will find the eagle there too, perched high, on the tallest tree.
Rachel Kuanneng Lee is co-founder of a data science start-up. She writes poetry. She is hopeful that someday she might be able to make a coherent narrative out of her career choices, even if today is clearly not that day. Her work has appeared in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore.
