Some of the blind sang songs, in fct
that’s most of what they did and were
good at it. Closing our windows
at night, latching the crossbars,
we stopped to listen.
One man sang always of fruits he missed,
mangos, cherries, Winesap apples.
Another sang of the road out.
He stopped between verses to laugh
the high-pitched cackle of someone
who doesn’t believe himself.
The animals have moved on now,
we have no idea, where, or whether
these tracks mean we are to follow.