Clear Dark Morning

Along with the witnesses
To history and its shames,
Great events, and suffering,

There are those from the same times,
At all times, in every time,
Witnesses to nothing much.

For the warrior grandfather
Who won’t speak of the slaughter,
There’s the one who ran a shop.

For the shopkeeper who lived
Through the terrorist attack,
Or the great fire or earthquake,

There’s the farmer far from town
Who barely heard of such things
But struggled against the droughts.

For the farmer who survived
The famines caused by the king
Or the central committee,

There’s the nomad in the hills
Who kept moving at the edge
Of encroaching nation states.

For the last of the nomads,
Witness to the genocide
Or forcible settlement

That destroyed a way of life,
There’s the soldier who served years,
Saw no fighting, then went back

Home to find work, set up shop,
Take over the farm, the flocks,
Get up early every day

Of a mostly boring life,
Savoring that quiet hour
When a clear morning’s still dark.