An Awning of Birds

Waiting for a convoy to come in,

an Afghan policeman with his AK slung,

hot hush of slippers on his feet, beckons me

to where guards gather for yogurt

in the garden beneath a tree, alive

with little brown sparrows, an awning of birds.

He wants to show me their latest prize –

a car his men have just towed in, a white Saracha,

bullet-holed, its windows broken,

the driver side door streaked with blood.

Air fresheners from Iran hang, slowly

turning above the dash.

This bomber they shot – before he went off.

I wish I could ask how they knew

to be so sure – if it was just luck or something else,

something in the way he moved behind the wheel

that lacked peace. The forehead sweat, the glimpse

of gritted teeth.

Across the city an echo reverberates in the air

like the rumbling of an earthquake, dispelling

the men from their afternoon shade. Disturbed,

the birds lift as one flock from the tree.

The policeman looks at me and grins. Boom, he says,

then motions for me to take his picture, posing

in the garden with his knife drawn, while beyond the wall

birds circle and sirens begin.