ALICE'S NIGHTSONG

Invisible birds chirp at night. Trains which passed by in 1877 re-established their schedules. Cruise ships leave from land-locked terrain, blowing their distant foghorns.

Nightsong is always played in doleful notes before dawn.

I wanted to leave violet snapdragons. Sprays of vibrant profusion in my wake; blood-red roses with thorns that prick, wound as a reminder that life is never
 
a given. Once it is given , it is to be lived well.

At high noon the sun was darkened for a showdown. The hombre in his perennial black hat was gunning for me. I didn't strap-up. The air was crisp.

Barely-there snow flakes floated, bells fell silent with deafening clarity.

They will carry me away in an unmarked box. Cursory grief will grave-gallop. My ashes will cyclone, then, settle upon wafts of waiting wind.

Buttercup-yellow fields, emerald-green grasses await my passage. I will make my winding way down to the river's edge.
 
My going home will be sweeter than the smell of a freshly-powdered newborn's bottom.

Alice Parris