An arid easterly breeze rustles sleeping giants
who awaken sluggishly
afoot like terra cotta soldiers
“(yawn) Morning Bob…”
“…It’s evening Fred”
“Is that a new scent?”
“…Runs in the genes
humans use it to make essential oils.
Who’s on watch tonight?”
“Tony the new guy,
moved in thirty years ago.”
“Yeah I seen him once or twice…”
Bob fell back asleep
Fred felt the waning hours of sun
enter his veins and clear the lingering dust
blown from countries away.
The Bird's Song 