Quiet.
A whispering.
Moonlight makes ghosts of the reeds.
Mosquitos brush their toes against the surface
Of blood-dark water where
An eel chases shadows through the roots of ancient trees.
And a million tiny things are alive.

Quiet.
Or… not.
Quiet but for the noises
Of the pumps as they rip apart the soil
And drainage channels scar
The broken land. And the ancient trees have lost their voices.
And a million tiny things have died.

Quiet.
Now, so quiet.
Moonlight finds ghosts where once were reeds.
In dried-out carrs foxes carve their dens into
The starless midnight earth.
The blood has drained away – they said there was no human need.
And a million tiny things are ploughed away.