The tiny journalist

will tell us what she sees.

Document the moves, the dust,

soldiers blocking the road.

Yes, she knows how to take a picture

with her phone. She holds it high

like a balloon. Yes, she would

prefer to dance and play.

She would prefer the world

to be pink. It is her job to say

what she sees, what is happening.

From her vantage point everything

is huge – but don’t look down on her.

She’s bigger than you are.

If you stomp her garden

each leaf expands its view.

Don’t hide what you do.

She sees you at 2 a.m. adjusting your

impenetrable vest.

What could she have

that you want? Her treasures,

the shiny buttons her grandmother loved.

Her cousin, her uncle.

There could have been a shirt…

The tiny journalist notices

action on far away roads

farther than the next village even.

She takes counsel from bugs so

little puffs of dust

find her first. Could that be a friend?

They pretended not to see us.

They came at night with weapons.

What was our crime? That we liked

respect as you do?

She stares through a hole in the fence,

barricade of words and wire.

She feels the rising fire

before anyone strikes a match.

She has a better idea.