The wayward starlings watched from lonesome perches
as the carpet rolled out upon the country side.
In sun beam sadness
the old men laughed
over cold skillets, reminiscing
about the tractor days of steel.
The bugle sighed as the grasses swelled and crashed.
That day, cold pistols were clasped in the hands of young boys
passed on by the murder of grey coffined heroes.
They shot down the last of the scarecrows
and the wingless starlings
were left struggling
in blood beaded soil.
