bed of willows, pillow of earth

The clouds roll gently over the serene scene. They taste the sweet breeze that cools the air makes the grass russle. The girl enjoyed the sound, the sound of the grass, picturing rushing water, feeling and seeing the waves of grass bring her spirit up and down. She knelt down, breathing in the sweet scent of yellow irises.

They can’t reach her here, not here, in the tall, verdant grass. The breeze seems to beg, whipping the girl’s hair around her upturned face. Please, begs the breeze. Turn around. The girl never hears the warning.

It is too late.

The man breathes down the girl’s neck, and she finally notices the contrast. The field fades to silence. Her screams ring out, replacing the twittering birds. Irises stained red and earth turned to thick, pasty mud, the flowers weep. The cool breeze turns hot with the smell of death. The grass russles, every blade shivering with terror, and the clouds roll over the scene. Serene, if you don’t look too closely.