The gruff, throaty complaints of blue jays,
the voice of an irate crow
transport me to my European birthplace.
The factual conversations of dogs, the harsh might
of trucks as speed shakes the engine,
the man-made thunder of jets as it cuts the flesh of the wind –
these reverberate in my memory.
They mesmerize me with the sounds of my childhood.
Budapest is the acoustical twin of Somerville:
the rhythmic exaltations of crickets; tires
sizzling in the rain;
buses speaking with the blunt throttle of low-flying planes –
both tongues untranslatable.
I live in Budapest though I reside in Somerville.
As I age, I live more in Budapest,
aided by the language of morning
and my mind which seeks to recover my history,
my splintered past.