Youíre looking up at the sky,
numerous thoughts always forthcoming,
the gentle wind is caressing your bodice.
Your favorite thing is the wind when it brings in the sweet scent of the nearby lake.
It tells your thoughts to become gentle nudges as you sit upon the velvet grass.
Looking back up to the horizon you see the feathered wings of many pass briskly by on the clouded sky. The count has begun, but only until you realize that a murder which is counted is not worth the time. The crows are up high, and below, reflected on the silver coated water.
The clouds move slow,
your eyes take them in,
the whimsical shapes perpetrated by the still oncoming black wings,
the voice of them reverberating like spears in your ears,
the wind is tranquil on your skin.
If this murder wasnít here, you would find your peace in the wind.
However, like the spears of crow-sounds, your thoughts come back, no longer turned gently away, they surface one by one, the grass is now sharp to touch, two by two, the spears plunge deeper, until you realize itís not worth the time.