praying nets

mix mud and heavy raindrops, a murky puddle void of the skill to mirror even the slightest silhouette, pour some more, pour some more, until it overpours into a snake-shaped waterway flowing gently in May, in a rugged rush on monsoon days, either way, on it, lays the floating wood and men with paddle arms…

OFW

Looking around this strange new foreign land, I saw a world that's unknown. Hoping and praying, a better life would be sown. I don't have legal documents, only my passport. That's why I fear the word deport.  Resisting my heart's aching and racing, insisting this is a leap worth taking, I brush off my tears…