Birds fly in a circle above the Yangtze
Over and over, refusing to land
As if they’re masters of the city patrolling the river.
But they’ve lost their companions,
The whistles of the ships.
Gray, century-old buildings stand
By the river bank where
The French concession used to be,
Like a scene in an old movie.
Someone walks by and falls on the street.
Poem by Xiaong Man about Wuhan
