Spring Shift

By Barbara A Robinson

The winds come again this Spring, not the soft gentle ones expected.

Not the kind nursery breezes ruffling the soft down feathers of fledgling bird children.

Not the hula swaying of newly leafed tree branches. Flowers bloom but they yield to a

strange breath reluctant to share their colors or sweet scents and they bend with

foreboding in this strange wind.

This time is different and so strange, like the roaring, tumbling, screaming of a

cyclone, so violent, so sudden and so filled with unholy debris.

Morphed from a time of rebirth to a time of death, this mutant season moves on, and

the sons of man follow not in harmony but to a strange macabre sound. Brotherhood

seems now mythical and lost in harsh gusts of mistrust, rivalry, and hate. Actions are

quick and thoughtless filtered through a tribal glass.

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