Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning

By Karl Knight

                                               

It takes fifteen minutes for the bird to die. I wash my fingers the water congeals in the mud near my feet.

Blood dances in the water.

I grab the shovel and with a strong sure motion I slice the small body up, each stroke destroying the flesh, the dead meat.

I take the bloody pulp and bury it in soil.

All things can be hidden by the deep dark earth.

I grab the bottle from the shelf.

Humming softly I mist the roses.

I always find gardening relaxing.

© 2013 Karl Knight