Mornings are easy. Sun coming through windows warms the house. A mother bird sings to her children. Trees are budding early this year. Grass is starting to green. He is alone.
Death surrounded him. Friends, lovers, a dog. It was one after the other. Like a plague, it was bad news on a daily basis. And still war raged on.
Old women pray at church for peace. Thousands have left behind family and neighbors. Young men gear up for battle. Tanks roll down streets. Murder most foul in the name of oil. Dead lye in corridors.
Jets fire upon buildings and bridges. No where to run. Half a million people knock on neighbor’s doors. Refugees; cold, hungry. Waiting. Wanting. This is war.
Mornings are easy. Sun coming through windows warms the house. He is alone.
dmseay 
Very good, and pertinent for our time. I wrote something a few days ago similar, as a tribute to Ukraine. “The Morning is Cold”. I like your piece. Excellent! 👍
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