budding

i slip into
a green mirage

hours pass as
the trees wave
in the humid breeze

the dewed sky
glistens with
a budding crop of stars

and blooms
its red petals

streaks of orange
yellow and gold

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watching black fields

i watched the fields die

windblown seas
once green
turned to grey waves

black shots of thistle
jutting up from
black rings of
ashen grass

and as the wind blows
in gusts that tell the season

the fields rustle and bend
with the breath of the wind

the breath giving them
movement
a remembrance of life

until they are green again

the incident

a shot rings out from the cold.
a dark and endless silence
follows in the concussive aftermath.
a shadow in the light of
a streetlamp with a form
so amorphous, it can hardly
be called a form at all.
no blood flows from the dark.
no wincing cries from
a body in pain echoes from
the shadow just beyond the
yellow glow of the streetlamp.
no shuffling of feet, no
pounding steps of a fleeing gait.
just a memory
etched into the air.