To Walk a Mile in the Rain


United States
42° 11' 47.8644" N, 83° 36' 48.8052" W
United States
42° 11' 47.8644" N, 83° 36' 48.8052" W
United States
42° 11' 47.8644" N, 83° 36' 48.8052" W

To Walk a Mile in the Rain

Written by: Skyler Thomas


The clouds floated whimsically, crisp and prim, on dancing zephyrs which whistled hymns.

The sun shone bright in the aft’noon sky, as Apollo’s chariot moved gracefully by,

And in the midst of this bliss was the Finch who cherished it—

But these good omens ceased to stay, once heaven shrouded in blasphemous gray.


‘Twas a violent winter storm. With it, melancholy flocked in swarms.

But the Finch, unyieldingly, sang songs of spring and flapped her wings.

Her cheerful chorus filled the air, each note chosen with greatest care. 

The storm! Oh, how I could feel her agony, and asked, “How can she sing with such euphony?”


Glaring at this scene from his aerie of melancholy sat the petty, covetous Crow in complete scrutiny.

Steadfast, the tempest blew, gales howling, torrents roaring, and the sky a darker hue,

“Such bliss I should possess!” cawed he jealously, as he shook with an aching, reckless envy.

With that he took flight, only one thought in mind while he readied his talons and narrowed his eyes.


Unaffected by the malevolent storm, the Finch was enthralled with her song evermore.

But alas! His black feathers shot towards her. His feathers stained red, her song, nevermore.

The Finch’s song ceased, her joy and her flight, as the Crow robbed her of the bliss she made in her life.

The sky turned black, the storm took its toll, and the cruelty that was left had dominion over all.


The Finch’s body lay still on the ground, and only the tempest dared to make sound.

The Crow took its perch back on his aerie and gazed down on his victim who once was so merry.

The drops had slowed to a steady staccato, and his envy and rage he had managed to swallow.

His talons retracted and pupils slowly widened, as he realized the horror that his jealousy decided.


       Although both the Finch and the Crow are like me, I still wish that the Crow had just let her be.

She had done nothing but fill the darkness with light, but darkness is what the Crow felt was right.

His envy spawned hate, his hate birth aggression, and the loss of the light became his obsession.

I never took notice of the joy in her song, until I took notice that the Finch was now gone.


And here I tread the streets again, these streets that are thoughts inside my head.

Two roads diverge and the route on the left echoes her song but recollects theft.

Yet on the road to the right, I hear his bitter cry, a woeful, imploring lullaby.


My gaze shifts up, where joy is feigned; my eyes are greeted by anguished rain,

And I come to wonder by and by, how not one eye would see me cry.


All conflict’s constant; it is my bane— to walk a mile in the rain.


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