Gunshots echo from the ridge, repetitions so fast
it could be the automatic fire of multiple killings;
at the same time, jets reverberate in the sky to
attack other hushed places of a Sunday morning.
Sitting here is safe, listening to this as intangibles
of what seems the gist from farmers and friends
slaughtering rabbits beyond the rim of that hill.
When the roar of aircraft fades and guns lull too
there is time to adjust to quieting clues –
one plane joins other vapour streaks across the sky,
a distant sound of tourists heading home or off
on holidays abroad where foreigners are tolerable.
When silent beyond the hill there’s little surprise
by what is heard in the taunting from further on.