Photo: Reuters/Ibraheem Abu Mustafa

Looking up from the barley harvest
they heard the sounds, like the blaring of trumpets
echoing across the hills.

Thick smoke rose up like smoke from a kiln
and then they saw the thunder,
fire sparking and flashing
as mortar shells fell from the sky.

The orders came in:
we have set bounds for the village
take care not to cross it
lest you be put to death.

They were sent out on the third day
and headed east into the hills
to the place where the Moabites once lived.

While back home, the unharvested barley
scattered like dry grass in the wind
and homes toppled into piles of stone.

Those were the days
the judges ceased to judge.