school assignment- first draft

The Years the Locusts Ate

The first year tasted sweet, late spring sunsets, and crisp. It crunched beneath our wings, a pebble in giants’ hands. The second year almost as sweet, the first candle lit to fill the darkness. It wasn’t our fault; we follow the wind. It wasn’t our fault; we need the desert to survive like you need your God. The third year crunched delicious, the last of your crops crumbling behind our feet. The fourth year, the dark overcame your homes, tasted burnt and tired, hopelessness like fruit wrapped in plastic. It wasn’t our fault; we followed the fire. We woke after the rain. We danced like warhorses, an army in perfect step until your stars shook from the sky, your faces became pale in terror, your sunlight and your dust tasted the same. It wasn’t our fault, sent for your repentance and our delight, in earthquakes caused by our jealous wings and the sound of quiet trembling from heaven, designated destruction for our bellies. The years became sour, and it wasn’t our fault. We followed the wind.