FLIGHT

The warning disguised as a message came before the village was up and about, and when they left they didn't carry pots or blankets or even machetes. As they went to the outpost of guardians they left chickens running in the yard and the dog lazing on the steps. Flights like theirs Do not have destinations, And only once did they wish for wings. The taste of the herd will return them To dark and dingy towns where They will sell used clothes, wild meat and herbs. The most vulnerable will sell bodies. Because in spite of the land mines They still shared limbs. Words like "the end of history" Will not resonate anywhere in their lives. They do not have meat and drinks left To offer to embedded scribes. As before Their fates will go unreported, arousing Only a shred of curiosity somewhere.