Stork Moon

There is a stork on the top of this ancient palace
wall that laid the moon in its nest like an egg
and the sultan declared it a national monument
but the people said let it be and time unraveled
and wars were fought and the sultan died
and his son was inaugurated while hands clapped
in the plaza and snake charmers played flute songs
and tourism tripled and the straw of the nest blew away
in the strong Sahara winds. The walls of the palace shrank
into museum decorations and when the stork returned
with food for the baby moon it found a vacant wall
and the habitat unrecognizably gentrified.
But the new sultan came to a compromise
with the people, for he was wise, and he encased
the moon in glass, set it in orbit outside the atmosphere
so that all could see, one night or the other, left
the culture content, everyone content except the stork
who perpetually flies from palace to palace seeking something
that he has forgotten, glides over the face of the water,
the glimmering reflection of the moon under his white belly
(just a shadow of the heart).