Waiting for the blare of trumpets

Sunlight slinks across a wall while I mend
the heel of a shoe. A black-haired woman holds
one arm around her eldest son. Bird-men arrive,
cloaked in white feathers; they only see our weakness.
They’ve come to count every boy fit to go to war.
In the jargon of birds they tell us where to stand
and what ornaments to wear. The sun is eclipsed
by dust. We wrap up our treasures in purple cloth.
I look to the crest of a hill. From there
we will parade in gladness
when we aren’t engaged in slaughter.