Smoky walks the tracks.
Forty paces on the green mile.
Death row.

But Smoky's not afraid.
Black as night, and growing darker
with every step.

Smoky's black eyes aflutter and spark
and notice an elm tree,
so twisted,
it's strangling itself
with rough skin, brown as the dirt it stole it's life from.

The twisted elm watches, but cares not for Smoky's fate.

Smoky wears a robe stained with storm clouds.
With every step he takes, the gravel beneath him ripples.
No doubt, he could walk on water,

not like the son of God,
but, rather,
a water skeeter, light and agile,
with a zen-like lack of interest.

Smoky walks the tracks.
The train is coming.

Smoky steps out of the way,
and continues his trek.
Keeping his cool.