Rain taps the landscape.
Its soft touch creates
A tender drift of mud.
In it is nature trapped.
She is her own jailor.

Alas the worms emerge
From the slow-moving slide.
The ensuing birds will purge
Yet through the air they glide.

A cloud engulfs the scene.
The spruce stands sentinel.
Mice begin to chatter between
Themselves; a peaceful hell.

For he who destroys
The scene so sculpted:
Rots among the angels
And demons who await
The devil himself.