I killed a mocking bird today.
It squeaked so weakly,
A pathetic chic, sitting on his peeling yellow egg shell.
And rage commanded me.
I could do nothing else, but to wait among the withering
leaves,
Gloating.
And when the wind was momentarily
dead, I pounced an Automatic, hard, fist.
Like a dry worn twig his neck obeyed my fingers.
Recognizing his weakness, and understanding that it could
not
Withhold my titanic power.
And then there was
blessed, prayed, adored silence.
That fertilized my brain,
Like rain does the parched field.