A boisterous assortment of martins, swifts and swallows 

is swirling above the lushly forested hills

of West Amanga, a scatter of soft green pillows.

Wherever a radiant splash

of morning sunlight spills

 

out through an open window in the cloud,

the canopy emits a plume of steam

and bird calls resound: the rattle of wrens; the loud

cracks of whipbirds; squawks

of parrots; peacock screams.

 

Everywhere there’s twitterings and flutterings.

Pittas patter crisp leaves on the forest floor.

Blue manakins bounce in the mid-layer, and stutterings

of quetzals come from on high

where the topmost branches soar.

 

Upon this living cushion falls a falcon.

It routs the swifts and swallows from the sky

and scythes along the treetops, never baulking 

from the destination 

targeted in its eye:

 

a mile long geometric tetrahedron 

with buildings at one end, the rest attired

in cultivated crops, lined out in legions,

and all the compound enclosed

in a formidable wall of wire.

 

Within this cage are captive orange birds

managing the crops with spade and axe

overseen by khaki suited guards

with radios in hand 

and rifles on their backs.