In hot sun they spread their umbrellas
over their heads, sharing it like a faith
making the bright Beausejour heat bearable. 
Black umbrellas spread out like corbeaux
circling the neighbourhood, blocking out
Samedi and the morning. Long lissome skirts
smoothing down their legs, I hear them squawking,
hawking, moving from gate to gate, and then the unfurling
of the name like a talisman: “Christ,” with its vowel
of shining, its over-protective consonants, its resonant