As the sun waved farewell and slid beneath the horizon, darkness came home to nest. The birds fell silent, and even the wind spoke in a whisper. Swaying ever so slightly in the breeze, the golden blades of waist high grass swished back and forth rhythmically like the pounding of a bitter heart.
It was his time. He crawled out of his cave on all fours, flapped his leathery wings, lashed his tail back and forth, and sniffed the air for young blood. With a mighty leap the demonic figure took flight and soared through the sky beneath the ever darkening clouds.
Soon he came upon a village, a small town of easy victims, mostly old men and women who had sold their lives away at their labors, never once enjoying the sweet juice of life. He would drink of their cynicism and despair.
Gently he landed behind an old man and a young girl walking down the street. With a savage growl he pounced and tore out the man's throat, relishing the blood.
He turned his attention to the little girl, but when his eyes met hers, he turned away again. That life! It pierced his heart, and as he fled, he remembered the rainbow in her eyes and the sound of flutes in his ears.
Notes: This text, also from a chapbook entry (April 30, 1993), has been retitled. Ms. Krueger gave us two phrases that day, ``Marching flute players'' and ``Rainbow in the Rearview Mirror''. While I didn't directly use either phrase, I managed to apply both rather tangentially.