For those who live amongst the hills

the words for stranger, guest or foe

have long been equivalent –

their sense eroded

to an acquiescent mumble.

 

Whichever way the head is moved

– up and down or side to side

with enigmatic smiles –

It’s always yes or no.

The open palm’s a plea or proffer.

 

Their body language a mystery

to those who merely see

what they wish to see,

the women whistle across the scrub

to dogs and men at work.

 

The year begins and ends

in winter, when they survive

on what they've salvaged.

A bleak truce, it’s broken

by folkloric birds.