A giant road is emerging. My sandy path is ready to be swallowed. Gambol, amble, ramble, saunter, stride… My way knows a variety of my gaits. This is a stamped path in my gene as an elephant corridor. It’s open for the rat snakes, mongooses, cats, and men. When I lose my way, no one will come to me. The machine claws won’t shiver when they pluck my black plum tree on the wayside. My silence will be deluged by the motor cacophonies. The hullabaloos will petrify the birds and my poetry. The tortoise lying on the grass with its head inside serenity is unaware of the imminent doom. Already molded in loss, I can keep up my sangfroid. First published in The Literary Hatchet