As the United States prepares to depart from Iraq, sort of, this journal entry appeared this morning, December first, as I looked for something else. I wrote this in March 2011.
The mountains, deep blue out the window of the catholic church where the names of the war dead are being read.
Iraqi names are musical. American names read across boundaries, cultures. And they are all so young.
But not as young as all these Iraqi children, who died of burns when a mortar or cluster bomb was detonated. Probably near their homes. Or in their homes. So many children.
I read the names of Iraqi farmers. There are five names. Five farmers. They had been bound, tortured and shot. I see them in a dusty field. I choke.
Driving down the road after my time of reading the names is over, tears come and I pray. I pray for us pathetic humans. I pray for awareness. I pray for the end of the War Economy.
I pray.
A red tailed hawk appears then, just then and floats above the road, this road to the south, this Blessed Bird.
Blessed Birds, blessing us.
