remorse divine

a shot

with a boy's bb gun

into the air

betwixt the astringent,

dust encrusted foliage,

of the tamarisk tree

what for?

why did the pellet

find its mark?

into a heart,

of sweet sparrow

made by God,

who knows all things,

from the hairs

on the crown

of each of our heads

as in,

where the word says,

He knows all things,

even when

a sparrow

to the ground falls

the steel,

copper coated

mini ball,

shot

through the still

summer air

upward

at 30 feet per second

in rapid

slow motion frames,

of sight, . . .

it first touched

his tender

feathered breast

a frozen image

in time

suspended

little bird was still,

alive . . .

until a micro second later,

its sweet dark skin,

indented

to violence . . .

in another

in sequenced sight

of frames,

he saw how,

the entrance of

said steel,

into,

tore

sweet capillaries,

and veins,

though delicate tissues

all,

comprised of

myriad cells,

flowed in a jet

of internally ruptured

pressures of,

living blood

into the beating heart,

of sparrow's precious

life

he fell to the dirty,

dusty ground

the boy lifted him

with no remorse,

no understanding,

and tossed him

limp

lifeless,

again

onto the ground

years later,

he sighted a singing,

yellow breasted meadow lark,

took aim of precision

from 300 yards,

.22 caliber marksman

the meadow lark,

his singing stopped

the young man

strode to the felled,

dead

bird

picked him up

onto the palm his hand,

its limp head,

once erect

and filled

with life,

praising the Father,

who made him

to sing forth with voice,

melodious,

on a western knoll.

of remote and barren hill

silenced

to dead still

by a missile of lead

oh, . . .

to turn back time,

to stop

and reverse,

back to the gun

with no shot fired

but no,

time is irreversible . . .

on his hand

deepest red

a droplet of blood

he peered

transfixed upon,

a reflection of sunlit

spark

his own face reflected

like the clearest

of mirror,

because,

on this precious

bead of blood,

a bubble,

a tiny sphere,

reflecting

a quantum world

of pensive,

celestial reflection

a conviction of,

why? . . .

why, . . .

did i kill this bird?

oh, . . .

to turn back time,

to stop

and reverse,

back to the gun

with no shot fired

but no,

time is irreversible . . .

swept with understanding,

he wept

and vowed,

never again will i

mindlessly destroy,

what God

has wrought

/ / / and now,

years later

he knows . . .

as the Word states,

death,

it certainly is,

reversible

but

only by the Power

of His own

Blood / / /