The days in their rank and file precision

Pass each other the way lightening will sometimes strike a tree,

And kill the farmer’s herd,

The lot of them having taken shelter from the storm

‘Neath the naked, barren branches, seeking only safety,

And finding weakness instead, nestled amongst their numbers.

There will always be a single bull left behind

After the last of the thunder bellows low and long,

And he will mourn his broken love and his blackened brothers

With the same intensity of the red-rising dawn they’d all watched

Just that morning.

It is the fault of the shepherd

For not heeding the warning of the sky

And he, too, will drown many nights in sorrow,

But such is the nature of the nights and their passing by

That one knows not what a day will bring until the Morrow.