In the valley of the green mountains,
I hear blackbirds squawk and moan.
They mimic hawks and humans.
But they never lose themselves in the dark,
in shadows and rain.
They can hit high notes beyond
any human range.
Some call them starlings or Myna birds.
I examine a photo of a ragged child
holding a ragged doll.
In Arabic, her name means “White Cloud”.
She is just five years old.
She is a refugee from Aleppo
In a filthy camp, she waits for a chance to live.
In the valley of the green mountains,
I hear blackbirds squawk and moan.
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