![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIKbi8oDt9T0Rz4MkTahM6KCsxeCQNLqrr6mHXcvPR8FHzzC6eB3j8R-Jq38SivruqjK9URGAzqGBDw0-5cd5tw6aptw-sWSdwTGvUSJCjUabUEnGf-QdA7fvScxcpaiLzrhKfcZI-Nw/s400/rain.jpg)
Like the wind and rain, we run.
Shouts drown, die in the slapping reeds, edged grass. The sing-song cries of arrows, an orchestra of bowstrings that we cannot see, cannot escape.
Death comes sudden, life brought to a point, pinned to the darkness. Last breaths are labored, a counterpoint to the soft trod of running feet. Hands reach out in the falling night, reach for stars,
hope for something more.
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