The Sign of Judas

Limp I faced the hill. Like a child, swung and the bells pealed. Above the road I looked onto a wheat field. The Farmer winnowed. The rope frayed into chaff blown away by the wind. The sun rose and the flies, biting, were devouring nails.

Clouds swayed, turning black overhead. The arms of three trees curved into music’s bow. Innocent blood on a hill. By day the trees sat taught atop the hill, against the full rope, the braided melody hummed in lashes when the bow’s hair was pressed and drawn.