The violinist tamed the birds,
fastened branches on the wall,
offered crumbs between his whistling lips.
The children, when it didn't rain,
had to fill a hole with water
so they could see the sky ringed
by earth, their faces wind wrinkled.

Walking was the favorite sport,
finding things, bringing them back
to talk about over tea.
We live
this way still, though they say
the war is ended, we can go away.
They took the fences down.

Walking
is still the favorite sport, offering
a shoulder to any bird, watching the sky
in a puddle. Our faces wrinkle
for the old days, when we were confined.