Across the river dressed in a pale white sun dress; The minor’s daughter sits on a boring rock. Hints of green aura, maybe just moss, lining the bed. Another lonely day outside a tattered, worn cabin. And the crows are singing but the birds ain’t chirpin’. Shrieks, shrills and Saturdays in your mother’s old sun dress. I can’t be your hero in the dark cavern. I’m stuck. These rocks. This hard place.

   Walking to the river gathering sticks and stones  that may hurt her. Alone… She feels the small of her back and gasping for breath as the knife sinks in and she knelt counting blessings and sheep in the river bed. Tameless old boars in these parts and you can forgive them for sacrifice and supper. Doesn’t change the fact. The facts…The crows are singing, but the birds ain’t chirpin’. Shrieks, shrills, and Saturdays in your mother’s old sun dress. I can’t be your hero down here. I’m stuck. These rocks. This hard place.

   Golden and silver stones, bronze sticks, and kerosene. Coal filled christmas stockings. His dirty face buried. Another lonely day she’s spending in the cool must of the cabin. And she stayed and forgot how to run. She stayed and forgot how to cry. Now all she remembers is his ash. Just ash. Ash everywhere. Just ash. And the crows are singing, but the birds ain’t chirping. Shrieks, shrills, and Sunday spent in your mother’s old black dress. I can’t be your hero done amongst the worms. I’m stuck. These rocks. This hard place.