I don't consider myself much of a poet, but yesterday afternoon, I got a very disturbing image in my mind as I was thinking of ideas for a story I've been working on. It had no place in my story, but somehow my imagination kept fleshing it out until it was all I could see last night as I tried to go to sleep. So I got a pen and wrote the images down. If that's a poem, whatever.
- Reflections on Watching an Eight-Year-Old Boy Kill a Crow With a Baseball
Twisting in his eager hand
Fearful eyes and hissing squawks
Useless claws and frantic jerks
One for sorrow, now it's dead.