March 2, 2009
The rising sun falls from the sky in flames
as bodies float atop the killing brine.
We scan for light that moves into frame,
no grave as lonely as this chilling brine.
They fly unseen, their minds abandoned,
fast and low along the churning brine.
They rise to dive, and attack at random.
We jump into the burning brine.
How many prayers were said this day?
How many fell silent to the brine?
Why must we die such a pointless way –
in this black and boney killing brine?