Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
Jam not there. I did not Die.
Claire Harner.
Don Phillips sat in the passenger seat of his sleek black car as it slowly made its way under an abandoned bridge. The sound of gravel and loose concrete crunching under the tires filled the air as they approached a small clearing at the end of the bridge.
"Stop the car." Don Phillips instructed his driver for today, a young man named Sean, to stop the car and wait for him while he stepped out.
"Yes sir". The young man responded.
