Beth Camp Historical Fiction

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Angels weep . . .

Angels weep as
sparrows hop along the white patio fence,
knocking off little drifts of snow
by the light of a pale moon,
their feet too small for frostbite
this cold, spare morning
with more winter on the way.
The bird feeder sways empty.
The house is quiet;
Sunday rounds the week
with dreadful deaths.
We fill the bird feeder
and mourn.

Who is not affected by the shooting deaths in Newtown, Connecticut, as the circle of violence and grief expands out to include us all. Yet each day begins anew. My report in for ROW80 will be mercifully short. I'm writing and making slow progress. Feeling sad.