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From the tropics
To the garden.
A place of grander beauty,
A different kind of climate.
A new home is sought,
Resting at the bottom of a hill,
It is bought.
The sound of squawking Crows,
Mimics the chirping of a Mongoose.
We climb the speckled hill,
Just as the maroons did.
Free to roam and bound,
Eschewing all of the sounds.
Both experiencing salvation,
For us, a park, for them, freedom.
Soon we leave the crest,
But never forgetting our nest.