A small bird

A small bird catches my eye.
With translucent feathers
He warbles in the searing heat
As the boy with skin darkened
By so many days as this
Works beside his father
In a field of wheat that shimmers
As they bend and scythe.
He murmurs something
And the father smiles.
Nothing more is said.
And I long to understand
Of what was said, and unsaid.
For as a stranger how can I devine
This secret that some of them must know.
Perhaps if someone passing by
Stopped and in asking what was meant
Should answer in a way to show
The danger of the question posed.
Of life and its intent
Or why the crickets beat,
A message that a boy had sent.
I watched between them both.
Between the furrow and the sweat.
Between the jaded eyes
Of secrets that had dimmed.
And faces wroughted in perplexity
Where sorrows are subdued.
I felt a plea, an intonation to confess
Bound in threadbare clothes
I foresee their faces lowered beneath the clay
And left after some short words
A prayer and then forsaken.
As evening comes and the stars
Shine down where none have spoken.
No recollection of what had happened here
No inclination of regret
No memories to forget.

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