bright blue-breasted bird
with a laughable mohawk
jumps from branch to branch
to branch to branch to branch
to branch to branch to branch
to branch to branch.
stopityouidiotcantyouseewhatyouredoing!!

up the worn steps i go
as mechanically as the jumping bird
i carry an outsized valise
that worsens the climb
gears turn
a breeze dutifully blows
trees waver and rustle
not fooling me

minutes are on the march
a dusty endless column of the dispossessed
they trudge along with their carpets and pans
one turns to me in passing
and says matter-of-factly
“your village is emptying
and there is naught to do.”