bird market in doha

from every corner of a connected world,

foreign places thick in fecund green, carrying

that wild loamy drape of filtered sun-

here to an openness, streets paved in stone

and the stone buildings open to catch even

the memory of a breeze.

the birds do not seem to know the difference;

in wire cages they erupt their hourly cry, all

manner of sound in a thousand colors,

a thousand textures of feather and wind,

memory and a global symbolism that

long since has stopped meaning anything important.

men stand in front of the stacks of cages and

speak about nearby revolution and shake

their heads; al Jazeera pours out indictment

from shop windows and car horns blare from

ali bin abdullah street. this could be any world,

any time, any moment. the sun makes its

arc, splays down on the ruffled feathers of

a yellow finch, bright-black eyes open and

song clear, clear, piping clear against the