Surgical Strike

The stars wink out over suburbia another dawn has won over a distant night. The defeated and dead as always, hidden between time zones, a brief brutality too far away, and not enough to smear backyards and beer barns. Upon my morning walk I lift up my heart in song. A soft breeze drowns out the drone of smart death, the quieted blood of the gone, leaving only surgically dismembered voices lilting sweetly in this summer air, If I look to the East maybe a bird or two will arrive bearing seeds of survival, for now the pinpointed and targeted tread no trace thread no words. After more nightly raids, after the nocturnal flames, the collateral and damaged come to dream with us, they come as the misplaced and as our muted morning guests – fortunately, we have many soft and spare pillows.