Tomorrow

I know what you want.

You want to hear about the birds in the trees

the first grass in the spring

the way deer pick their way over a quiet stream.

An illusion.

Something to comfort a breaking heart.

It's easy to ignore the way these birds scream.

They stopped singing a long time ago.

They just mourn now, flitting from branch to branch.

It's easy to ignore the way the grass pushes aside its dead brothers as the snow melts, pressing a soft head skyward, knowing it will die in the first frost of spring.

And those deer?

Has it never ocurred to you that fear is what keeps them quiet?

That they can feel its vice-like grip always clutching at their throats.

It croons to them with a voice like wind rushing through the trees.

"Don't make a noise and you may live to see tomorow."

...They so rarely see tomorrow.