I wonder if an unusual flock of white crowned sparrows Were there that day, that fateful day Sensing, by which means I know not; The carnage about to come. In a frenzy of panic I can imagine the flutter The unruly encirclement over the festivities.
Perhaps an onlooker gazed upon the sparrows Momentarily captivated by crying white birds Together with an eerie hush from the desert wind Surmising that this is an ominous sign, Could this be one last final thought of the departed.
For high up in the Mandalay, thirty-two to be exact, Malevolence hailed down -hailed on a strip of the Mojave. Smokey rounds undiscrimately raced, laced, With hate into the music lovers. Did the Red Rock echo the automatic distant mutter; The disturbing sounds of mass tuned celebrators' dissarayed.
To what cause is there for such bareful morality? What heart on 32 could not the feel the serenity; Of the soothing, harmless country beat? Then still, sought it fit to take many away Away from their sacred land and kin.
Many souls - stunned by the sudden halt to dancing Directed upwards, towards the sun Yearning to return for one last goodbye. Perhaps then, that same flock of white crowned sparrows Native to the north - were grasped by the fallen By some divine intervention.
Then to return to the scene in the Mojave, Chirping farewell to the bereaved, Gracing once again - the soil of the free land; They loved, and perished upon. Then into the abode - well above the desert sky.
2017, many deaths in a Vegas harvest country music festival due to a mass shooting. Rest well in that desert sky