In the mind's eye, I can see naught but a raindrop,
Reflecting an emerald world as, on a blade of grass, it is atop.
The raindrop shows me flowing forests fighting for space in the sun,
The occasional, fluffy-tailed squirrel squirreling across a bough,
But, what the raindrop sees and whispers of when night falls is not so fun,
Monsters in the rushing brush, waiting for the ball in the sky to come low.
They come out to frolick and devour,
Their eyes amber in the witching hour,
With tails lashing and mouths frothing,
Traveling across a sleeping country and leaving no tracks,
A merry tune rumbling in their harsh throats as they sing,
Stuffing innocent life into flesh-hewn sacks.
Returning to their stone dens as the sun rises,
The shadows hiding beasts of all sizes.