Today, all that shelters me descends
with the sudden, clamorous weight
of a collapsed safari tent. Tangled
in its heavy canvas, its guy wires and
flapping doorway, I struggle
to my knees, scrape the palm of my hand
against flinty ground, stagger upright
in the ruins of shelter gone rogue,
its domed roof and foldaway
walls revealed for what they are:
a flimsy intervention.
Until the bird in me, that
resumes its interrupted flight
choosing the accommodation of wings
to uplifting air, leaving the mortal need
for pretexts of home far, far behind.