Crushed underfoot, twigs and unknown growth of the forest sprouting up from nowhere. Fashioning a rough new hewn of a landscape, the sudden thrush into the marsh kicks out the stragglers. Onto fronds larger than themselves the children in this find more comfort in the green of the leaves than they do of the arms of their parents.
Those that stand and remain at least.
No doubt, no care only comforts those with a heart made of the finest and strongest of bark. Cold to the touch and warm to the licking lips of the fire at night.
Turning up a corner is merely their way of saying nothing while breathing all of their intent with scorn and scorch marks for the outside world to interpret. Wild in the mind, only the bare necessities are theirs to cope with the unflagging crunch that triggers a wild storm.
"Run! For the sirens don't stop unless they stop you!"
Written on Wednesday, 25 October 2006