she woke with the grumbles of any other winter morning in december
slid into cold clothes and messy hair
and set off and on her way into another ordinary day
but ordinary was having a civilized tea with thunder
and she found tears of overwhelming emotion and confusion
spilling from a silhouette painted into the stormy skies
of gun metal gray and knives.
the wet speckled sidewalk ran from beneath her
and she hung suspended in a story she had become quite familiar with
but had yet to read to the end.
a time of drizzle set in and all forms became blurred in the distance
leaving her to paint the faces
of strangers and mothers
fugitives and refugees
liars and lunatics
and amidst them all, she took a bow and began to dance
beneath two red umbrellas
and black crows.
