I tried to photograph the bambis this morning but the zoom came out too blurry to see anything, and it was raining. When it stopped, the trees were lovely though.
Blood cools after the shot
rips a scream,
and beauty flees
to walk other gentler paths.
I may not live to see a time
not devoured by red hot open wounds,
the slow poison
that bleeds white
fish, flower and bird.
There is no peace in these nights,
but if I could, I would heal it all
with the soft fire of morning,
dancing on the edge of being.
Trees whisper last songs
as leaves fall, drift in gold,
and the robin sings sweet and strong
where the deer browse.
Listen to peace dropping,
let this not end through greed,
the innocent suffer for our folly.