huddle along the streets
on the edge of paranoia,
tremble at the prospect of a future
without a family to shelter.
Their whispers and suspicious glances
color the sunset
of this early desert evening.
Wisps of cloud mar
the perfect blue of the sky
A mockingbird hiding
in a tree up ahead
teases with his insistent song;
his notes bounce against my skin
but he’s too clever
to let his flashwings be found.
Soon his songs are behind me,
having taken on a melody of disdain.