A Vanished Home and the Silent Cries from the Sky.

After what felt like a never-ending week of exams and sleepless nights, I needed to breathe. The familiar hum of the city wasn’t enough anymore; I longed for fresh air and a change in scenery. So, after months of neglecting it, I finally made my way to the terrace of my building—a place I hadn’t set foot in for at least six months. 

As I stepped onto the terrace, the view startled me. I stood there, frozen, not because of the cool breeze or the sudden freedom from academic pressure, but because something seemed off. The park below, once familiar, now looked different—strangely unfamiliar. It took a moment, but soon the truth dawned on me: a tree was missing. That tall tree in the park, the one that had grown so high it almost brushed the edge of our four-story building, was gone. I could still picture its branches reaching out like arms, swaying in the wind, home to an entire ecosystem that flourished within its leafy embrace. How had I not noticed its absence before?

I sat on the terrace ledge, trying to piece together why this simple loss felt so profound. Then it hit me—this wasn’t just a tree; it was a shelter, a home. That tree had been a sanctuary for crows, eagles, and other birds that flitted by from time to time. On countless afternoons, I’d see them perching on its branches, their lives intertwined with the rhythm of the wind. 

And now, there were no branches for them to perch on. No towering limbs swaying in the breeze. Instead, there was only empty space where life once thrived. 

Suddenly, I noticed a group of crows circling the sky above, about 10 or 15 of them. They flew in confusion, darting from north to south, east to west, frantically searching for something they could not find. For them, their home had vanished as mysteriously as the mythical city of Atlantis. They circled the park, flew around my building, and back again. But the tree—their tree—wasn’t there. 

Eventually, they grew tired. One by one, they landed on the terrace railing in front of me, forming a line as if they had gathered to protest. Their cawing was sharp, almost accusatory, as though they were asking me, “What happened to our home? Where did it go?” 

For the first time, I didn’t hear their usual calls. The familiar cawing I’d always associated with the birds sounded different now—more like the mournful cry of creatures who had lost everything. It wasn’t just noise; it was a story of displacement, of loss, of human actions that had quietly erased their world. 

We often forget that nature isn’t just something that exists in the background of our busy lives. It’s alive, interconnected, and deeply affected by our choices, often in ways we don’t even notice until it’s too late. As I sat there, watching these birds struggle to comprehend their sudden homelessness, I felt a deep sadness. I was just a bystander in this tragedy, yet their silent whispers, carried by the wind, seemed to reach me with a force I couldn’t ignore. It was a stark reminder of the fragility of the natural world and how easily we disrupt it without even realizing. 

I wondered if anyone else had noticed the missing tree or the displaced birds, or if the world had moved on without even a moment of pause. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this loss was a symbol of something much larger—a reflection of how disconnected we’ve become from the wilderness that surrounds us. 

In their cawing, I heard a plea. Not just for their tree, but for all the homes and habitats lost to human progress. The birds eventually flew off, their cries fading into the distance, but their message stayed with me. Their wild whispers echoed in my heart long after they had gone. 

As I rose from the terrace, I made a silent promise to pay more attention. To not just walk through life unaware of the natural world around me, but to notice, to care, and to do whatever I could, no matter how small, to protect it. Because the wilderness is not just out there in the forests or mountains—it’s right here, woven into the fabric of our daily lives. And it’s up to us to make sure those whispers don’t fade into silence. 

 -Fahim Gani Warunkar

Meet the Author: 

A boring person in immense love with the moon, writing what I feel. And yes I enjoy writing sad poetries and romanticizing life.