Small abandoned silos up from the
road. If you pull in a whole flock of birds spills out from being startled and
rides the sky up and up and up. It happens so fast. Cumulus clouds above. The
one lane highways go and go and go. Sometimes you see the pictures and flowers,
right? - Where a soul died. I had a friend that was the victim of a drunkard
and drugged one. Got hit head on. But I can't believe it. We sat on a swing and instead of putting on airs or judgements, creeds or views or any of it,- she was on the level. Unbelievable. There are not many that are like that. On the level. If blonde hair and brown eyes and true talk is found,- then such should be esteemed and honored. We joked and laughed easily on the swing, far north of the metropolis, like two that had known each other before. No, dead should not be the way. Providence should smile, but sometimes it doesn't really even show up. Dead. We all die but it would be nice to stay
around a while. You wouldn’t know the incredible sadness to look at the sun
shining then. Strange how the sun keeps it up, all the time, all the while,
year after year. I guess it has to help the flowers to grow and somehow the
streams to melt and flow. The silos look metal and white, - and make you think
of a good design. Far behind are the thick forests and the large Oaks. They
must look painted white-snow only in the winter. Or do the flakes fall off?
There must be times when the wind really comes across the roads and the fields
and there are not many trees in places, or structures, to block the white from
sprawling and singing its song everywhere. Maybe it can crawl up the sides of
silos and maybe it can even block out the sun. For sure, it can overtake the
birds. But for now, the flock spills to the sky and in the beginning there is a
ruffling, somehow rustic rambling as they beat their wings and bang their
beaks and souls to the sun.
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