A field

Of untrimmed berries

Lies in darkness;

As a rust-redpickup

Lumbers in,

Sleep-eyed children

Clutching Mommy

Wait

For something only they can hear.

It gathers,

Whispering,

As they walk out and begin to pick,

The blue-blood berries staining small fingers.

It sings

In light Nature's alto

To children who only know

The chants of monks.

Growing,

Growing

Beneath the moon,

Waiting and whispering,

The children hear.

Clash!

The cymbals break

And hidden

In the rus-red picup's bed

A child's eyes grow wide

As before her

Time unfolds

In moonlit dawn.