A Bird in Rehavia
There is a bird in Rehavia
who busy’s herself long before the sun’s rays warm the stone walkway;
long before the kiosk’s shutters open and the Turkish coffee is put up.
She nests in the crossroads of migration,
neither coming or going,
certainly no intention of leaving.
Rehavia is her home.
and dawn wakes the night.
But the horn of a taxi,
And the bus engines sound.
It’s time to get up and her prophetic song fades into the day.