The Killing

Five small, green speckled eggs, in a nest on
the ground, looked like costly gems; nearby
a bird dragged a wing along as it was broken.
The moment I killed it I knew it was faking.

Silent meadow, no bustle and natures hum,
heart pounded in my ears, looked up the sky
was darkening, shadows danced malicious
tango, across the land mocking my sorrow.

With a heel of guilt I crushed the eggs and
knew that god, in his remoteness is forever
unmoving, a galactic icon of no corollary,
but to whom endless wars are fought.