she wore a shirt made out of shock. and she looked the part. all high heels and tattoos quivering. a single tear etched on her face as she relayed to me her story. but the whole thing was rather cold and impersonal. like neither of us were really there. like we were actually each in treehouses. separated by back yards. but connected by a series of strung-together tin cans for communication. endless lies lining up in the darkness to greet us. their eyes watching from just outside the firelight. shifting back and forth on their two ashen feet. waiting for the inevitable rip in the conversation. in their huts the villagers were all asleep. dreaming of bank accounts and botched love affairs. benevolent birds swooped down on us, but kept the night at bay. in return we fed them small fishes we’d caught earlier. storing them in a big old plastic mop bucket. we went on with our watch. thinking back to the days before the spears had pierced our sides. remembering times when we’d lived our life like karaoke. singing words we thought were right, but which were mostly off key. the mountains sloped up in the moonlight. somewhere in the distance, a baby was born from the treetops. we had been told this happens only once every generation. this child of the trees comes down to drink from the spring. beyond the parapets. a silver sword of love is buried in the sand to mark the spot.