The millet was ripe
and the sparrows and other small birds
walked among the stalks, feeding
and singing the praises of god, distant
cousin to the god three ﬁelds to the west
that had caused the farmer’s well to go dry,
the millet to grow just inches tall and bear
no seed. The birds stopped there only brieﬂy—
they remembered the place from seasons past—
before joining their comrades to the east.
O glory, glory, they sang then, forgetting that the rains
were late again this year, that the glittering streams
they had bathed in on their way to abundance
had once been mighty rivers.