That beautiful sir keeps watchful eye over the land. He carries an armful of lilacs, he says nothing but walks, his black plumage glinting in the near-spring light. He swings something along his side. Too afraid to ask. Why does he hide it? That's because the trees have eyes.

Roasting, dripping pig flesh and sweet dough, cooking ever so slow. A warning whisper is sent through the woods. How do trees know? They have eyes.

One lilac drops on the floor above the decaying bird carcasses. There are bird carcasses. Is this one of the beautiful sir's kind? That cannot be. But it is because the trees have eyes. They don't say much, trees, but they send a whisper up the woods and warn the fleshed pork eaters of coming lights. Snap! Fire out. Don't make a sound. Can they hear?

And suddenly the trees whisper as loudly as trees can:

"RUN"
                                    
For the beautiful sir is hardly man. There swinging at his side is nothing but a human head hanging on some golden thread. There is a stench of death that could never be described as anything other than fear. The beautiful sir with his black plumage is death.

His head jerks and he looks the fleshéd in the eye
they know they are the next to die.

But, how did the trees know?

*"That's because the trees have eyes."

My bones creak
like the inner
workings of
an old house.
There's some damage
from the constant
heartbreaks
and multiple empty
promises,
but they're still
supportive
enough to keep me
standing.
If you listen closely,
you can faintly hear
my frail bones cry,
"I miss you."
Please come
home.


B.S.