There on the fence, behind the house

a little brown bird weighs less than an ounce

it checks the horizon and searches the grass

as seconds pass

in the little fingers of a little clenched fist

a two ounce stone waits to be released

the boy is silent and still

waiting for the moment to kill

childhood and summer are made of the things

that poets and painters all try to portray

here in the moment before this small crime

there is no experience of time

motion and sound startle the air

a pebble takes flight, the bird disappears

but did it escape or is it lying dead

on the other side of the fence?

Son, take my hand

You've got to know what you’ve done

But understand

No matter what; I love you, you’re my son.