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Carl Boon
222
STRANGERS AMONG THESE HILLS
How joyful the hills
without me—gunblasts,
laughter, and brides
lifting their skirts above the dirt.
In the morning noisy aunts
pluck flowers
from the roadside,
gossiping.
Even on the highest hill
the buildings murmur,
and citizens track to and fro
with the promises of lovers.
Is it only me
who notices that the trees
on the east horizon
rise in shapes of lions?
8:58: in the distance citizens—
some in brown scarves—
approach the Buca Mosque
for the night’s last call to prayer.
Elsewhere, kids slide down
hills, startling the cats
and chair-bound uncles
watching the news.