I have always loved the never ending plain. My brother loved it too.

The wind has always ripped strongly through the air, almost knocking us over and destroying our inky umbrella.

My brother has always wanted to walk across the plain. He wanted his life to end before it had began. He said he would get through the wind and walk to the end of the plain, out of sight.

He said he wanted to see what was on the other side, to see what our eyes couldn’t, what was beyond our sight. He said the crows were there too. The crows could fly above the wind. And they were able to get there. The murder could get there.

The rain at the plains were just enough to have a need for an umbrella. It always rained like that. The perfect amount to dim a day. That’s why my brother decided to leave the cover of our umbrella. Into the pressuring rain and across the plain. He wanted to leave me.

He did, he left. He walked across the plain, and beyond what my vision would let me see. I used to think that if I collected enough inky-like quills, we would be able to fly away. Together, in the cover of our umbrella, and to the sight we couldn’t see through the wind across the plain. He made it where we never could together, across the plain.

I am to chicken to cross the plain, he was rooster enough to dare. He was the chicken that crossed the road.