Sheva

A beating of wings outside the window startles my sleep each morning.

Dust rises, turds fall from the ambling herd of sheep. Foreigners walk nimbly, the rest of us don't care.

A land of harsh light

and delicate flowers that will break

if you look too hard.

Light slants through the shutters, leaves shimmering against the sky, a fly encircles our snoring.

The sun sets

in a pool of blood and dust spread thin.

At night the stars make cricket sounds outside the village.

In the Sinai Desert an old Beduin sells scalding coffee in demitasse cups.