The Ways of a People
by James Wackett

    During the day they shout
    through a secret language:
    they bleat and squeal through four
    wheels, announcing intentions,
    ripping metal from metal
    when impatient or careless.
    Even when still, they still talk
    into their own hands and ears,
    whispering secrets to themselves--
    what they see, what they hear.

    But when the sun turns pink
    and hangs below their houses,
    then they go, hand-in-hand, down
    to the waters.  There they eat,
    huddle close, and softly murmur
    their evening prayers, and their eyes
    drift, like waves, from their children
    to their neighbors.  Some, deep
    within the sea of their thoughts,
    let their worries, like the waves,
    softly lap against the rocks.

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