Gaza

Dumped roosters roam

the wildlife refuge near me,

clucking for the ears of coyotes.

Caravans of flatbed trucks speed

past hauling caged chickens

to slaughter. At home, the sun

strikes raindrops trapped on leaves

—flashes SOS signals —

while chickadees dart back and forth

like fleeing families

north and south to empty feeders,

their shadows against the house

dive like falling soldiers, yet

Palestine has no army.