I used to like sheepherder coffee, a cup of grounds in my old
enameled1 pot, then three cups of water and a fire,
and when it's hot, boiling into froth, a half cup of cold water, to bring the grounds to the bottom.
It was strong and bitter and good, as I
squatted2 on the riverbank, under the great redwoods all those years ago.
Some days, it was nearly all I got. I was happy with my dog, and cases of books in my
funky3 truck.
But when I think of that
posture4(姿势,态度) now, I can't help but think of Palestinians
huddled5 in their ruins,
the Afghan shepherd with his
bleating6 goats, the widow weeping, sending off her sons, the
monk7 who can't go home.
There are fewer names for coffee, than for love.
Squatting8, they drink, thinking, waiting for whatever comes.