Old people here
                say the sun those mornings 

                came from a different sky.
                Roosters 

                cock-a-doodle-doed
                the executions- 

                half the village hemp-sown
                to each other slowly 

                through the shoulders
                so they'd fall into the ditch

                together.
                The buzzards hung in loops 

                like expectant fish.
                Even after fifty-five years 

                bullets and soft bone chucks
                ease to the surface 

                for the birds to peck.
                The part of us 

                that plays with truth
                changes like the river 

                bottom: the bones
                that are collected and put in a pile 

                under the pines and are sooner
                or later buried, again, 

                and the bullets thrown into the river
                to roll to the sea with the stones.

Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2005.  All Rights Reserved.