Old Survey Road

Where the land slopes

Toward the riverbed’s

No man’s land,

At the compound’s edge,

Is a single tree,

Which is three trees

Grown from one sapling,

Or three saplings

Grown into one tree,

Mango, litchi, and peach

Ripening on its branches.

No botany textbook

Or illustrated dictionary

Gives its picture,

But in the record-breaking

Temperature of June,

The month of forest fires,

The green of parakeets

Flares in its foliage

And thieving children

Scrimmage in its shade.

To me their bruised knees

Recall similar injuries,

Some still to heal,

Others become rings.