He passed by the missing poster
      On his way from the toilet.
Contemplating, briefly, the fear.
      A nameless, numbered, teenaged girl.
Wasn’t old enough to rebel,
      But she was old enough.

She was probably freshly dead,
      At least he prayed that she was.
Half-buried, gas station meadow …
      Complacent field of shady green
With blue, gold and lilac sprinkles
      Of freshly mowed, perfumed, sweetness.

A hawk picked off a tawny life
      Among the morning’s golden dew.
Meadow-larks herald the rising
      Of a cold, unnoticing sun.
Each lowly creature preyed upon
      By a higher link in the chain …
God at the top, preying on all.
      Psyche fluttering to each bloom
Without discretion or purpose,
      The wind breathing on all. Senseless.
He felt no love or hate for life …

Nor wistful dreams … just acceptance.