They tell me that
        If a slave ran away
        He or she had to
        Be quick like dusk,
        Able to hide
        Under a multitude
        of deceptive shades.
        I imagine their flight
        Must have been something
        like a hummingbird's
        Perpetual motion seeking
        The sweet release of
        Freedom, but never
        Allighting for more than
        The single moment
        It takes to drink nectar
        Then with calculateable
        Suddenness moving on
        Moving on before dawn
        Could capture them again.

Copyright © Herbert Woodward Martin, 2003.  All Rights Reserved.