Familiar

The helicopter lands on a mountain plateau. People scale the slopes towards the turning rotors. They check their fear and approach because they know about the bounty on board. I look up. The helicopter's belly hangs above my head. I stand to get out of the way and am blown down. My body scrapes across a thorn bush, penetrating deep enough to draw blood. A local man scurries to assist me. He asks if I speak Creole or Spanish, trying to find a common language between us. No, English or French I reply. He wears a straw hat that provides shade where little is found. He escorts me around the others fighting for tools that they can use to build temporary shelters or to have and hold as precious objects. The fortunate ones walk head high and neck strong with their recent acquisitions. I scramble inside the helicopter while others off-load the last of the relief supplies. I want to jump out and run along a mountain path so that I can know these strangers. We share something in common, but what that might be takes time to learn. I go high in the sky while watching them grow small against the earth.