Palestinian Olive Harvest

the sound of english raindrops
in palestine
as olives fall on
black tarpaulin
in a grove
near a village
by a settlement;
a sound from home,
in a place far from home,
that is beginning to
feel like home.

the dust and heat rise,
cover my body outside,
fill my heart inside.
now and then a donkey brays,
now and then we stop
for sweet tea made
on a fire of dry sticks.

we move from tree to tree.
conversation ignites, dies down:

inside, the rain continues to fall
long after I have left
and the harvesting is done.