I walked lazily through the field with my shadow brothers and my stick, counting the colors of the flowering weeds.
Birds told me news I didn’t feel like hearing, so I shot them with rocks as they sang and they shut their beaks up in fear. I would have peace today. I would have air and exercise. Their indecipherable songs, weaving in and out of the leaves, notes striving for dark bird meat, merely stirred up my brain and cock alike. I would have a quiet body today.
The frogs knew better than to croak. They could taste mammal anger with their bubblegum tongues and would save their croaking for their underwater caves.
A bee buzzed by and my shadow brothers touched it with a cold finger and it fell in the dirt to dance no more. I could barely hear its venom crying out for activity, but could feel the ground vibrate with anticipation. New dust for the mud machine. New death for the soil.
To think that death is silence is to forget we feel the grass growing through us, sawing at our bits like a crazed violinist, unceasing but when it freezes.