She can feel the bumpy rock beneath her, through the thin soles of her shoes.
It leaves its erratic imprints on her hands, jagged lines and dots
A cool autumn breeze lifts her hair gently from behind,
The light of a descending sun warms her face with its autumnal glow.

She had climbed up from a small, frail metal ladder by the side
Now, sitting on the top of the school, she is by herself.
Her phone dings, but she reaches over and turns it over, screen facing down.
Let me remember this moment forever, she thinks. Look at this beauty.

A monarch catches her eye, the sun shining through its colored wings.
With each fold and unfolding of its delicate wings it soars miles and miles higher.
What a marvel - it is almost as if it had been crafted by a man and a simple pair of scissors,

Cut from the paper that is the prairie, rolling hills, placid lake, and desert sand.
He flies in loops, twisting and turning through the air as if he were a dancer
The sky is his stage, the girl his audience
Even the commentator is quiet, stunned by his feats.

A dark figure swoops gracefully                         across the sky, seeming to join the dance
One moment the monarch was there
                                                       The next crushed between the beak

Of a crow
Its body limp
Its
        wings
                 droop
                          downwards,
                                            life
                                                 dripping
                                                            slowly
                                                                      from
                                                                              its
                                                                                  frame

The crow lands and stares at the girl intently.
Its glossy eyes capture the girl’s face,
The trees surrounding the football field,
The moon rising to its night time position.
A mirror, but a distorted one.

Her lips form words that refuse to sound.
The crow simply tilts its head at her,
It consumes the quivering monarch slowly, watching her as she watched him.
It leaves no wing, antennae, eye, or  leg behind.

The girl stands up, frantically searching for a stone by the last of the sun’s light
Any rock, stone, pebble, pinecone, or bottle cap would suffice
But alas, nothing was to be found.
She ripped the case from her phone and threw it at the crow

Clack!
The case meets the ground thirty feet below while the crow darts away, leaving only a sleek black feather
Caw!
A victory cry, against pitiful, futile efforts.

Where is the man and his scissors?
Where does he live?
Why does he fashion a life so beautiful only for it to be destroyed?
Why does he cut darkness from the same paper?
What did the monarch due to deserve this tragedy?

As the library computers whirred gently past their bedtimes, she learned:
There was no lesson to be learned, no story to be passed down.
An innocent life had been cruelly and slowly torn apart:
An unnecessary torture, an early demise.

Maybe the man with the scissors is nothing more than illusion