The crows, once scattered, draw
together on a canvas for your art.
You see them and approach, loading
your weapon for the kill.
But your silent; you stalk the
grass, missing the daffodils.
Positioned behind a bush in
the urban forest, you steady the
gun, now shaking in your hands,
and aim. You've done this before,
swallowing your guilt, you fire.
The birds scatter again, flashing
out too late to escape your
cornered prison. The blood
only shows on the negatives. Your
sure of it. Where would they go,
these trophy heads of natural
mourning? (Trapped in the static moment,
unable to fly?) You've lost the smell,
Sound, touch-
You've shed the third dimension;
Gone since you shot the ocean last spring
And when you line up the children, position them,
their eyes wide open to witness your crime;
waiting, poised, ready
for the presses hot,
you aim again as
digital tears roll down your cheek.
