Faces in the Wind
One speck on a solitary hill, standing
Outlined against the green, watching
Flowered plains stretching, empty
While birds swoop, flashing
A sudden blot of red, soaking
Into trampled mud, churning
Hooves grinding fragile petals
Swaying peacefully in the breeze, catching
Wisps of hair on a solitary hill, above
Distant eyes, staring, dimly down
Into rocky glades, stones sharp as swords
Cutting, shattering against metal, hanging
Suspended among screams, mud churned with red