The War Reporter Paul Watson and the Girl and the Mountain of Nothing

What’s in the mountain of nothing? A girlscrambling the summit with her eyes. Her mouthhangs back. As if merely impressed. Wire meshin broken concrete like the antennaeof giant robot roaches. Squashed. While stairscascade sideways. And neighbors spin debrisout of vivisected bedrooms. These stoneslike all the world’s walls have been dismantledand blizzarded over Homs. These copingstones dashed, keystones unshrugged. Names anddates wiped off cornerstones in the crash. But my eyesadore the girl’s clear-eyed stare. And nothingworth noting. Or looting. This collapsed wombof stories. Her friends inside. The girl spinson her heel. Windows blown out by the shock-blast rattle and flute. Old men are stirringlike lovers in a daze. Blue jeans, outgrownskirt on top. Hijab. A weathered bombercoat like a trench. She holds a bag of breadfor someone, surely. Takes a step. A boystrides past flipping his hood up to the rainand looks at me. Then up at the mountainof nothing. To see what I see. Nothingworth noting, or looting, we walk on.