Here in the city, every street is a 
crossroads. But out where houses 
are few, the crossroads is a place 
of power, where the desperate go to 
pray, where on moonless nights spells 
are cast, lovers are stolen, people 
die suddenly for unknown causes. 

Just yesterday that crossroads was a 
hub of endless migrants, millions on 
the move around the world, fleeing 
poverty and violence, people 
whose families had lived sustainably 
for generations, but whose beloved 
homelands have been made barely
livable by what we pathetically call 
civilization. All are now just folks 
looking for shelter, for a home.

An ancient tree stands 
at one corner of the crossroads, 
observing, watching.

It’s not our fault and yet it is. We 
destabilized the world. The sign of the 
times is danger. Forces unleashed that 
none can now control. The powerful 
and their minions stuff as much as 
they can grab into their bank balances 
and try to escape, thinking themselves 
safe behind thickest walls. But there’s 
no place to hide in a broken mirror.

And now this sudden cataclysm 
pandemic has shut all borders, and 
the crossroads is even more 
perilous than before.
Uncounted millions stranded 
far from home, without work or
income, easy prey for predators,
human and viral. Meanwhile 
their families back home 
surrender to despair, bleeding 
shattered hopes and dreams.

The ancient tree beside the 
crossroads watches them. 
Ragged women and girls, aged 
and ageless, boys, men, their shoes 
fall apart at the seams, even the 
infants look exhausted.

Shuddering families pause beneath me, 
laying down their burdens for a brief 
while, then rise wearily, stagger 
to the crossroads’ center, the core of 
power, the very point of convergence, 
where, no matter how exhausted, they 
always pause and gaze in each direction, 
prayers whispered through trembling lips, 
a tear rolls down a cheek, but most are 
beyond tears, time is short and death 
lurks everywhere, they look longingly 
toward the burnt-out paradise that once 
was home, take a quick glance over 
their shoulder, then sigh, and carry on. 
And when they’re gone, others take 
their place, and endless others after them. 

I stand here as witness.

On every moonless night when it is 
too dangerous to walk and even the 
nightbirds and crickets are silent, an 
aura rises and encircles the crossroads. 
Only a few can see it, only a few know 
it’s there. It is always gone by firstlight, 
dissipated in the morning mist. Nothing 
remains but a shadow, a circle of protection
for all travelers, all migrants, all refugees,
all strangers who dare to step trembling into 
the point of convergence and pass through