Their voices like birds
a melodic twitter that would die down to silence
then to suddenly swoon
in loud calls
someone’s name
a history would puncturate space
and for a moment
song would stop for story

Their dresses like the wind
when it sweeps under the
boughs of willows
hid any weeping
the wind embalmed them
a sanctuary that uplifted them
a weave of women’s hearts
to celebrate water at the well

tears of prior moon
on tides of solar light
flashing in their eyes
bearing water’s reflection
in their hands and arms
and on their heads
laughter blessing the water
joy filling the jugs
love was the song
sung by the women at the well