I remember the birds in the trees who sat in
the branches, the crows, the black birds, and the
grackles, and below, nearby, the Jews, also in dark
suits, conversing in the square along with the birds
in the trees, and where the men and women sat on
benches, or stood talking with their arms and their
voices in the street, between the benches and the
branches, when they were not from some other
place, living the livelihood of menders, the steady
mending of villages and dreams, away from the dark
rumors, they kept sewing with fingers and feet, day
and night, beautiful dreams and solutions, with no
time to look up, only to incur another plague to stop
the mending and the sewing of words and the
melodies of olden times.