Amina

Before the sun rose over the red earth of Zazzau,

before merchants unfolded indigo cloth beneath the market awnings,

She was already awake.

Moving through the ancient city like a quiet song,

past walls the color of clay and memory,

past courtyards where women pounded millet

to the rhythm of generations.

The morning knew her.

It settled softly upon the folds of her headscarf,

caught in the bronze rings at her ears,

and lingered upon her face

as though reluctant to leave.