New Life
Copyright 2001 by Jon Gill

Save for the single apple tree near the old farm, the prairie is empty. The sky gets darker, and the breeze hints at something larger coming. Dark clouds swirl as the thunder gets angrier.
A single bird, new to this desolate environment and nearly a day behind his group, flies south as fast as his stubby round wings can carry him. The higher he flies, the more he feels like a mature, self-sufficient bird. His life is just taking shape; who cares if he falls behind from the flock?
In a single movement of air, the tornado takes shape, becoming a more and more mature, self-sufficient funnel. Who cares about a little bird, fallen behind from his flock? He is the wind, and the wind blows however and wherever it wishes. This bird will be the first victim of the new tornado’s wrath. Hungrily its swirling arm reaches out for the unsuspecting, naïve bird and swallows him whole.

New life has been swallowed by new life.


I wish I still had the picture that this was written from. If I find it, I'll put it up - it was a badly-drawn picture of a bird above a prairie, with a funnel cloud about to engulf it. Pictures are worth a thousand poems...

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