budding’s cry

journey to the innocence
of a budding’s tired cry
music to the ear
that softly forgets
what fate it has set forth

what death will take
because he has more heart
than that which moves to see
what pleasure more, stays now distracted

upon those who gaze
on all that is yet to be known
clouding what is known
and does not live
in our lives
if not named

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pink

–leaves,berries,mud,sticks,pebbles,snails,bugs,pink

-what’s that?

-pink.

-let’s go look.

-no.

-ohh it’s a baby bird.

-oh no.

-see how it’s big purple veins, closed eyes, sticky skin, no feathers yet.

-hmmm.

-see how it’s bones stick out, its neck is bent, it must have fallen

-ewww. flies.

-you know you could…

-no.

-come on. it’s dead.

-no.

-it’s a secret.

-no.

-you’re saving it.

-no.

-it’s so small. it won’t matter.

-no.

-come on i’d do it….come on just hurry.

-no.

-i won’t be your friend!

-so?

-alright alright i’ll do it.

-no.

-fine then let’s just go!

-no.

-no?

-no.

-no.

crunch