DEEMA SHEHABI

Light in the Orchard

 The black crows don’t rise frequently from yellow fields
 in sunset anymore though the sentiment does---you see
 the earth as a trammeled garment beneath your feet and
 the blue, teeth-marked cavity of water and sky circling around,
 blue on copper, blue-green, green-auburn, and although
 you wish to repent and say: no country is worth fighting
 for—the rain light will suddenly riffle through the breeze
 until finally you spot the swans bristling on the pond,
 blood-colored clouds flaring in their black eyes,
 and then away one last time to the orange grove,
 where birds plight in your stall.