The sun is about to rise, first
bulldozers are closing in.
Rain fallen from the beginning of time
turns acid before it wastes away.
The road clear now, mud drying,
even the crickets silenced by the break of day
till that, also, wastes away.
Slamming doors, yelling men,
sound of bare feet on half dry earth.
Boots defying all conditions
making marks on human flesh.
The snapping of wood, caving of roofs and,
after some effort, the roar of flames.
Work done, boots returning to engines,
eyes observing retreat through brush.
Mud turns flaky, baked earth
the color of weat.
The sun burning down now
in full force.
