To the slaughter daily is led a gentle soul that we are fed, mercy pleas fall on ears so deaf from a heart whence love is bereft. They claim supreme, all mankind, so out of tune and out of time one day to rise up and find the mellow source of natures rhyme. Not boxed…

A cool moist breeze blows gently from the western sky, high clouds form overhead passing through the night. It is said a storm is coming. My little square of green tin twirls wildly in the wind, a clapper high on its string strikes the tubes who sing. A song is played for the storm. Kittens…