Strike Day in Oakland

Strike Day in Oakland
by JOAN ANNSFIRE 

A human tide of people swept into the port.
we moved as one, wound up and over the bridge and came down,
came out, came across, danced and chanted;
like straw spun into gold, anger and pain transformed into victory
that moment, that day, that army of the 99 percent.

In the silhouette of sunset,
under the dark outline of cranes and containers,
dwarfed by the massive equipment of the shipping industry,
individual drops of water ran together as a mighty flood,
heavy and purposeful grains of sand whipped into a swirling storm,
becoming more than enough to clog towering structures of steel.

Self-proclaimed welfare queens, poets and rappers, old and young,
rolled in wheelchairs, walked with walkers, rode in buses
or ran with breathless abandon, carrying signs and banners,
dancing to music and speeches,
marching to whatever drummer they chose.

All declared, we are here, this is really happening,
today reality is not virtual but actual,
something being born, something growing,
something new, something more.

The water lapped at the ships in port,
the cranes bore silent witness, the sky went dark,
the air stayed warm,
the songs went on.