When afternoon sun dripped lemon
yellow over charcoal black trees
and there was deception in the air
they knew it was time to go,
to move out of the double helix
of anger and inheritance.

In time they would be sighted
in faraway towns as waiters, porters,
wayside vendors, smalltime crooks.
One even made a name for himself
as a dog-catcher.
They were all given to sudden bouts of sadness.
But they were the ones who remembered
the village as it always was.
It unspooled before their eyes like a black and white
film: a swollen body slits open the slimy
green of the village pond, the afternoon
sun drips lemon yellow over charcoal
black trees and there is deception in the air.