Like a conical hill,
Immovable from that same locus
You would find him standing there.
Be dusk or dawn.
Be winter or summer.
The sun will descend.
The moon will rise.
Still, you would find him there.

In blue sky garments,
Black bangs,
With a “billy club”
You will find him there.

The watchmen.
His eyes and posture
Moving instantaneously.
Like an eagle,
Up above in the open sky,
Waiting to catch the chancers.

The sentinel.
Where he came from,
Where he rests,
He is more than a hawk.
More than the hill or eagle that we may see.
Hey, Look at the hen,
You shall discern him.

You may feel nugatory.
Your presence may feel absurd to you and to that lacking social consciousness.
You may envision yourself like a useless tree in a middle of the desert.
But no, no,
You are the safety and water in those dry-desert streets that we pass every day.
The watchmen,
Yes, the keeper but guidance to those who are lost.