Its small body is in my hands.
I feel the sun on the back of neck and the wind in my hair.
Large tufts of grass sprout in front of me,
their blades swaying against the fence.
My heart yearns.
I don't hear the sounds,
no voices can be heard.
Shrill silence rings,
with desire to be heard.
The sound of the gun,
in the wind,
the grass blowing in the spring breeze.
It's falling backwards
into the grass.
I remember my head against the glass.
There are people reaching out over the radio,
I feel their gaze through the rear-view mirrors.
The breeze still blows through
the barley.