Morning Song

For Janna The tiny journalist will tell us what she sees. Document the moves, the dust, soldiers blocking the road. Yes, she knows how to take a picture with her phone. Holds it high like a balloon. Yes, she would prefer to dance and play, would prefer the world to be pink. It is her job to say what she sees, what is happening. From her vantage point everything is huge—but don’t look down on her. She’s bigger than you are. If you stomp her garden each leaf expands its view. Don’t hide what you do. She sees you at 2 a.m. adjusting your impenetrable vest. What could she have that you want? Her treasures, thing shiny buttons her grandmother loved. Her cousin, her uncle.There might have been a shirt. . . The tiny journalist notices action on far away roads farther even than the next village. She takes counsel from bugs so puffs of dust find her first.Could that be a friend? They pretended not to see us.They came at night with weapons. What was our crime? That we likedrespect as they do? That we have pride? She stares through a hole in the fence, barricade of words and wire, feels the rising fire before anyone strikes a match. She has a better idea.