Even afterward, you can hear a bird warble

as distance breaks the sound barrier.

The stark silence returns to the early morning

and is met with an equally desolate landscape.

The sun is hours from rising over the hills,

but the odor of the burnt underbrush floats

on the breezes with the heavy stench

of a corpse in transition from putrid.

You can sense the repugnance;

the black and singed flesh and flora

of the arsonist’s blaze is ripe with smug antipathy.

He watched. He watches still. He memorizes

every detail of his terrorist act, but he sees it as an angelic gift that he has bestowed upon this ravine.

Indeed that bird’s last cry is music                          to his depraved and malicious will.

Early morning soon arrives.

She smells like death.

He feels satisfied.

By DL Mullan

From: United States

Website: http://www.undawnted.com

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