Al-Bara

Soil in the City

sung as an Arabic refrain understood as spring, word gardens with flowers hard to recognize. I don’t have to look to see what it is, this sound going up and down the road with a wooden cart pulled by a scruffy, thin horse lacking patience for my petting, used to work, walking to the same notes repeated for hours until all other human sounds are reasons to nip. The cacophony of cars elicits no reaction, its scabbed neck unruffled by horns blasting at its slow pace, unmoved as dirt is scooped from its load while an artificial rooster calls and the sun sets on nothing it hasn’t heard before.