Adele Ne Jame-IV
For Remy Oshlik
Finally, after days of rain— sun
and clouds roll over the hills dreamlike—
perfect upcountry morning.
I pull the Jeep over on the shoulder of
Crater Road to watch a pair of horses
grazing in the sun. How their burnished
coats gleam against the wild green,
fields of yellow dandelion and brush,
how flies swarm their flanks in the heat
and how their muscles shiver them away,
their tails snapping side to side
in the north wind. They do not notice me
or care about me—or the others
in the suffering world—
not the French photographer
killed in Homs bearing witness—
not those grieving for him— or any of the others.
They simply do what horses do perfectly
and steadily behind a barbed wire
fence that keeps me out.