A fine warm line goes forward, in a single track and then loops and turns us toward the sky as if the earth were sky with our footprints missing or erased willfully by winds.
We first map country homes with electric poles and the abandoned substations with bat-homes. We then enter casuarina trees in their tall homes. Beyond them is a rise of the sea with no map, only a dull ocean sound for our cartography.
Canada is immigrant’s map of a maple leaf. In a coming back to our culture, a pipal leaf has the leaf-end that kids rub in with wet hands to make a surr sound in a squeal of delight.
We map our empty spaces with the old pipal tree as reference ,the wind’s whoosh in its leaves a midnight refreshing of memory, when weak. We map our places with their unique sounds.
All places have to stay close to the railway track in their own interest, not to lose their identity. The train sounds are reference points in map. That way we run no risk of losing our address .
We are following our life’s line that goes on endlessly on the mud track and bush crickets map our nights, by creaks addressed to stars.