Try Number Two

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 was almost as sweet, the first candle lit to fill the darkness. It wasn’t our fault; we followed 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 paled with terror, your sunlight and 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 tremblings in heaven. The years became sour, and it wasn’t our fault. We followed the wind.

We ate until the moon shattered in the desert, until your hearts could no longer bend, until you traded children for sour wine, until you fell, chasing pleasure instead of freedom, until death crept beneath the roots and into the stones, ravaged your minds and filled you with fear.

We grew full and spewed stench in all directions, to the northern army and the western sea, full of your cries and your wails for relief that would not come. After we finished our feast, we moved on with the wind, you stayed, your hearts stuck in the crevice of aimless wandering, a panting flame lost in the desert. Your cities full of ash and boredom, unemployment of the mind and waiting for the sought after restoration that would not come.

It wasn’t our fault, we followed the fire.