Desert Six: A week-old nomad

Should I keep this to myself? But I need to pour out to ease my pain. I am but a week-old nomad -- without a home, without a house. I had slept in a certain chapel for nights; but only this night, a guard took notice. Sleeping, I was told, is prohibited there. I left. Nights before, I slept in the veranda of the abandoned hotel. I never knew a guard was in place, asleep. I noticed only when he woke up. Did he notice me? I never knew but a stone was thrown to my direction. I left again. Last night, I happened to sleep in the sidewalk -- just beside another middle-aged vagabond whose way of living is gathering scraps that he can sell from the garbage. He offered me his bag for pillow and portions of plywood for my mat. One friend treated me with lunch. An avocado tree has been giving me fruits almost every time I pass by it. A fallen avocado is joy to a hungry passer-by. I know in my spirit God will greatly bless the tree, a friend and the fellow nomad. I, too, believe God will return a hundredfold the finances sent in to help carry out this work.

The songbird

It creaked! It squeaked! It screeched!

The rusting joint of a door? The waving sheet of a roof? 

Day one! Day two! Day three! Ah ha! The shrill of a bird!

The sound! The voice! The cry! A song! A friend! A family to me! 

But, suddenly, it stopped!, it stilled!, it's gone! 

Little jungle was home to her, but little jungle is little jungle no more. 

One man, two men, three men, slashed tall and tiny spiky green grass! 

Freshness is dryness: garden is desert!

A month passed, and another! Desert, once again, is garden!  

And I am hearing it again! 

The sound! The voice! The cry! A song! A friend! A family to me! 

Creaking! Squeaking! Screeching! 

The songbird is nesting midst of spiky green grass!