Author's Note: Hello All! Just to warn you all that this is just the first scene in a very, very, ridiculously long story. I know most of my stories are pretty long, but we're talking novel length here, so I don't want anyone jumping in and expecting quick read. Also, all the poems are original and (as far as I know) they are all technically Sonnets. (I add this not so much because I think you'll actually care, but because I like to brag.) Oh, and if anyone feels the need to see a disclaimer you can put the standardish one here ________________________________________ Thanks -- Harrie

"And the frog jumps and they get him and they grind him up and the bird sings and you can't hear it because all you can see is the blood, the bloody frog and the sunny day is ruined!" River said passionately.

"It's all right, River," Simon tried to calm her. "It's ok."

"It's not OK!" the girl practically screamed. "The frog!"

"Just take a deep breath," Simon said, reaching out to her gently. "We'll get you a nice cup of tea and . .

"You're not listening to me!" River said, batting his hands away. "He gets hacked up, chopped to little bloody frog-bits. You have to listen!"

Simon sighed and closed his eyes. He loved her so much. How come taking care of her was so hard? It didn't make sense. "River," he finally said, opening his eyes and looking at her. "I know what you're saying means something very important to you," he said. "But I don't understand it."

"The bird sang," River began very slowly, enunciating each word precisely so that Simon would have no trouble understanding.

"No," he sighed, "No, I just . . . to me your thoughts seem random."

"Neuro-electric reactions often seem random because the average human mind is too simple to recognize its own thought patterns."

"Patterns," Simon muttered as what seemed like a brilliant idea blossomed in his head. "River, could you make what you're telling me a pattern?" he asked, his voice hedged with excitement. "Could you put it into a drawing, or an equation, or a poem or . . . or anything with some structure?"

"You want me to think in poems?"

"If you can," Simon said, trying to smile at his sister and not notice how her gaze kept darting across the room. "A formal structure could help me dissect what you're saying. I'll be able to tell what's important."

"You want me to think important things in poems?" She didn't seem daunted by the request, just confused.

"I want to understand you when you tell me things, mei mei," Simon said, reaching out for her again. This time she didn't bat him away. "Do you think you could . . .?"

The girl nodded, and then started muttering,

"Cold water down the hill will run,

Over fine rocks and lumpy log

On this one here, basking in the sun,

Sits a fat green and gorgeous frog

Resting, he hopped there for the fun

With his friends in the mire and bog

They couldn't know, though, what'd be done.

The horrid act to which his hop was a prolog

'Cause the morning bird sang, rutting

Fool, and at his call the frog did jump

Into the bag, was marked for the gutting

There was nothing left but a red green lump

Once a noble frog, before the cutting

Killed him, so quick he never knew he'd left the stump."

For a moment, Simon started at his sister, utterly dumbfounded.

"Dose that help?" the girl asked.

Simon searched his mind for something to say.

"It's a poem, Simon," River said. "Do you understand now?"

Simon still had nothing to say.

To be continued . . .