By: James G. Piatt

Beneath the shade of a
Sycamore tree, looking at
thoughts reflecting off the
ripples of a blue pond, I
hear the strident voice of a
red headed acorn
woodpecker tapping,
“forget, forget, forget,” into
the emptiness of silence.

But, how can I forget, even
in this beautiful sunrise of
apricot hued colors, when
chaos is everywhere, and
pain is etched in the
bodies of innocents, and
the minds of blameless
children?