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A black crow's darting eyes spans the wheat field and an orange pumpkin patch. She sees tall grasses of brown seedlings, bristling in the wind, soon to be bushels of grain and a pumpkin pie that she never savored. She sits, atop her tree perch, at times warm and storybook, hidden by tree branches, and at times out of harm's way and infamy. Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert, dancing along. Her other friends bring alms and smiles. Life is so good at times. Down the road sits a mill next to a waterfall and a cabin, with reindeer horns hanging above the doorway. She is in her element, happy, carrying for her nestlings. Back and forth her parental eyes dart the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies, all crawling with sustenance and awe. Storybook. A mother feeding a worm to her baby. Storybook. Off to her side is not a blind eye watching her, scary stick figures of straw tucked under red shirts and hats, with a tied tinfoil strips dotting her eyes and tease. Scarecrows, cease. At times life is good nature, hand in hand, knock on wood. If only life could be circumspect. Than darkness filling the light and a stutter of life. For a sad page is turned, pause ... tears. Then, feathers fall. Hers. The sound of a thud. Silence and tears of her friend's swelling. A baby's cry, missing her mother. More orphaned tears. Who would be this despicable? On that rogue day. A kick of a donkey, an *** one bad rock on her path, breaks the air, as three little elementary kids were walking along to school. One, me, with a rock in his hand, taking aim at her perch and the death of the black crow's pages. I confess. ... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned it has been fifty years since my last confession ... a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse. I repent. Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns, including stealing the reindeer horns and milling my brother and sister's storybook. Waterfalls stream tears, and a sorry boat rowed downstream sadly thereafter. Logan Robertson 7/25/2018
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Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:02 PM UTC
logan-robertson
No Storybook Ending
A black crow's darting eyes spans the wheat field and an orange pumpkin patch. She sees tall grasses of brown seedlings, bristling in the wind, soon to be bushels of grain and a pumpkin pie that she never savored. She sits, atop her tree perch, at times warm and storybook, hidden by tree branches, and at times out of harm's way and infamy. Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert, dancing along. Her other friends bring alms and smiles. Life is so good at times. Down the road sits a mill next to a waterfall and a cabin, with reindeer horns hanging above the doorway. She is in her element, happy, carrying for her nestlings. Back and forth her parental eyes dart the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies, all crawling with sustenance and awe. Storybook. A mother feeding a worm to her baby. Storybook. Off to her side is not a blind eye watching her, scary stick figures of straw tucked under red shirts and hats, with a tied tinfoil strips dotting her eyes and tease. Scarecrows, cease. At times life is good nature, hand in hand, knock on wood. If only life could be circumspect. Than darkness filling the light and a stutter of life. For a sad page is turned, pause ... tears. Then, feathers fall. Hers. The sound of a thud. Silence and tears of her friend's swelling. A baby's cry, missing her mother. More orphaned tears. Who would be this despicable? On that rogue day. A kick of a donkey, an *** one bad rock on her path, breaks the air, as three little elementary kids were walking along to school. One, me, with a rock in his hand, taking aim at her perch and the death of the black crow's pages. I confess. ... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned it has been fifty years since my last confession ... a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse. I repent. Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns, including stealing the reindeer horns and milling my brother and sister's storybook. Waterfalls stream tears, and a sorry boat rowed downstream sadly thereafter. Logan Robertson 7/25/2018
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