
She lies inert,
then tense.
Her tiny bones
brittle as twigs,
head barely downed –
too small to hold
the two pools of
shimmering brown
flecked with dots
of buzzing black
that look but
cannot see.
A shadow flits.
A sheet of dark
snaps above,
just out of view,
waiting to descend.
It changes shape –
becomes a gun,
a sword, a bomb,
a lie.
They are all lies –
no matter what is claimed,
there are no grounds.
Whispers rustle in the air.
A final squeak,
then silently the
shadow folds around
the fragile form
and lifts some part
of her so high –
beyond the flick’ring bulb,
the shattered roofs,
the stunted trees.
A bird set free
A news article on the plight of the starving children in Yemen stayed with me and I found myself writing The Shadow and the Bird.