Saggitarius
Starved monks crane quietly
Among the thistle; awaiting the rain again.
Grapes sing with color on vines wet and glumped with waterlets; ensnaring them.
I wait by the well, resting against stone, staring
Tenuously at the backs of
Their shabby, sun-scorched
Armaments made to manifest clear and immediate liberation.
Rags and smiles. White wispy hair. Cheeks pricked by thorns.
Illicit in motion, the shortest saunters over to me like an
Un-manned unicorn, and asks
Sagaciously, “Are you the Legend of the Archer?”
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