The men drove all night.
A crystal trinket swayed
left and right to cast
pinpoint rainbows on faces
worn by virile experience,
a subtle feminine stint
from the sky above,
the Kush desert's sky,
majestic beyond words,
mapping by dimension
forays by little things,
whole colourful tribes
who peered half asleep
into the starry labyrinth.

Who said nothing,
running to protection
from bloodthirsty foe,
leathery hands holding
soft calf wheels, the road
or the distance, or hope
shimmering far ahead.

On this particular hood
they remember the silver star
bound in a circle, was it
bright enough to be
in front of the full moon?
A presage of captivity
by witchcraft or technology?
Have we been always thus?
Continuously on the move?
A tree belongs. It can feel
all its family by the root.
Did we not pull out,
encircled our sex genes,
to precisely impregnate
another experience
as different as can be?

The lines around their eyes
deepen their resolve.
The morning will be hot.

jam16