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.”