Wheat rolls as thunder
slaps aging breeze.

Not God’s crash
in rain’s folding

rush and storm.
Man’s steal carves

the silence here,
and the smell

of fire lights
your eyes, press

ears to bleed
and ring when shot

blasts the sky
from Marlon barrel.

Brown bird splits
and dies before

ground hits.
It flaps, but only

in false thoughts
of flight.

Dad turns, gray
and large like Thor

and speaks words
I never heard.

“You are my son.”
breeze dies as ants

swarm the feathers.
We leave it there.


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