The Ghost of a rat shifted dead dry leaves in the same way winter starlings created sky lined patterns and mathematical waves.

Cold was in the greyness of a yard broken and wishing for more cracks in this vicious season. Happiness was in the same way fleeting. Changing its wintered shape and watered movement in ripples and faint smiles. Now the phantom of a true falcon chases the idea of its prey across cobbles slick with life ice and sad accidents. Haunting its small yard territory and slipping beating wings against the idea of its once blooded life.

Tall son and blonde daughter no longer here and seem to be praying more upon a soft cowards mind in false and some would say sharp clever romanticism. The son remains a mixture of confused bass notes, trembling in memory, is it my fault, he asks? More remembering than the younger daughter girls voice in pain yet singing.

Not allowed, not to be, she sings, cannot trust you as you failed in your true purpose to protect us when needed. We do not understand. I was too young. We will not see you again. I, because I cannot remember you and he because he can.

Our Mother attacking you then in the way that hurt women can. Extra tormented hurt visited upon you as you are aware. Hurting lies in creating the effect she wishes upon the faith she has lost. Convinced she is divorced angel right. The rest think you are guilty because why would she if you were not? It would be worse than murder. Proof not needed, horror only. Horror upon horror until you succumb to this lack of brave advantage. Paying for the sins she think you should have. The old wife screams all this to the ghost of the dead rat and the falcon that she feels is playing false. Watching the winter black birds wheel gives only the idea of related confusion in perfect formation.

You consider calmly the two ways you could retreat into self pity. In memory or blessed forgetfulness. In soiled sorry, pathetic remembering or healthier, do it yourself, creative lying. Yet there is no courage when there is no choice.

A landscape from another country fashioned with regret and seeded with the pronounced conciousness you now find cannot be afforded on this borrowed, overdrawn, overblown, very basic account.