rustles in the undergrowth
we fling stones
stand silent for a moment
to count the effect -
stillness still
weigh the probable outcome
in our minds until
with nervous glances between us
we push our hands
among dead flowers
separate stem from stem
touch fingers in our searching
and draw from the wrecked bed
a grey frog
eyes sunken from the stoning
a shattering of limbs
soiled with earth
our eyes meet in an understanding
of the creatures death
and the strange power of our hands
No comments:
Post a Comment