"A bird!" cried he, and tipped his head to the sky
Mouth open, as if the cloud would crack
below
A bird, he saw, a shadow in the rain,
And shuffled his toes in the sand
for want of a head to bury.
"Murderers!" she cries, and waves her token low
Feet dusty on the worn boards
full of knots.
Her hand shakes and tremors
and mocks the Earth
Her red lips, pursed, and bitten.
"Murderers."
She closes her eyes against the storm.
Cuts, they see, from glass or rock.
Worn soles, tattered skin
And soil.
Toes broken.
"Smile," they will say, "No matter how much the pain,"
before turning away with locked faces
and open hearts to judge the false from false.
"Tempest!" We cry.
"Squall," a windy roar of voices.
One tongue: a silence.
A drought of words.
Our skin, on aching feet,
Cracks and buckles.
We squint to the sun
and dare not pray.
A murderous bird, beak, talons full of wondrous lightning
and
thundering feathered cuts.
Turn away, and shuffle
drag your boots.
Ache with sweat,
and bitter salt,
