Sleeping beneath the ceiling, the feeling of a memory missing. I don't mind it like it is. The hollow space where pleasant things once lived.
One day the meadows will wait for rain. And while the rain does not arrive, a fire will be coaxed from any, many of the bristling branches. There's no need for yelling. The animals disperse amidst the arising. No one and no thing left to warn, only your own body warming.
Watery eyes realize the certainty of a beautiful scene dead during its dying. The silent light of sunlight gazes indifferently everywhere evenly, its sky-eye view of habitats and inhabitants crackling and screaming. Through the evening, twilight, night, morning light returning; a quiet death brooding – the breath of another generation of living.
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