I was there, laying on A mossy patch of rock As a brook gurgled by, Fresh with glacial waters.

Birds flew above earnestly, Clear conscience on spread wings. Tips of pine trees poked Out holes in the smoke-filled sky headed for the early afternoon Sun. Tree blossoms picked Up by the dense air twist Away in the wind to welcome The distant droning of Sirens, growing until the Forest itself slows down To turn its ear towards the sound.

This patch has seen the last Of its tranquil days. Echoes Through the soil reach their kin, Just a simple command, “Run.”