Rarely Anything Is Louder Than The Highway In St. Cloud, Minnesota. Especially On A Sunday Evening Down On The Mississippi River, The Sun Barely Over The Trees. My Bare Feet Exposed To The Cold Of The Warm November Air (Warm For A Minnesota November Mind You). River Mud Squishing Between My Toes, Pink, Five Little Piggies Catching A Cold. Marble Orbs Staring At My Human Stature Through The Withering Underbrush, Waiting For My Metamorphoses. The Scent Of Blood Burns In My Nostrils, The Sad Thing Is, It IsMy Own Which Laces My Sleeves. The Red Moon Wanders The Sky.