Zane Doellman
Blood rolls down the mountain,
Leaving a trail in the thin layer of snow,
And a foreign color in its wake.
It gracefully steps upon the frozen water beneath,
Careful not to disturb the peace of the elk downstream.
Though as the blood begins to pool,
Cracks scatter across the milky glass,
Reaching from one end to the other.
Now Fate extends its arms,
Calling for compliant customers,
Of its all-consuming hunger.
Only when the strange liquid has swallowed the sun,
Does the earth finally give way,
Leaving a foreign color in its wake.