Sullied water and moldy bread,
a wormy apple or bright berries,
it was on these they fed.
Night two or was it more?
Gators snapping as
carefully they stepped
in mud and gore.
Sounds of tiger growls rent the air,
when the tree snake reached down
to dust Clara’s curly hair.
Dawn found them on a sandy beach,
here to hide and keep watch all day
against the sound of dogs at bay!
When Clara’s feet began to bleed,
Mom-Mom tore her turban loose,
to wrap those tiny feet
beyond the scent of any breed.
Night after night, they traveled on.
Hiding again at first light,
always searching for guide or clue
to carry them from all they knew.
Until Clara wondered at seeking more,
hiding from the searchers,
their dogs and gun,
when hope itself had nowhere to run.