yellow bird at rest

yellow bird at rest

Dear Yellow Bird-

What happened to you? All that’s left is the bright plume of yellow and white feathers scattered on the forest floor. I can’t find your bones. But you could not have been very big, your longest feather the length of my index finger.

I can’t imagine someone as tiny and bright as you could be much of a nuisance. Just doing your thing in the woods. Maybe that was the problem.

Was your song too abrasive? Did you go home to the wrong nest? Did you fall from some place?

I should have looked up.

Maybe you were slow, or blind, or deaf, or all of it. Maybe they captured you between powerful talons and crushed your bones like twigs as they carried you through the sky. Did you know it would be your last flight?

You watched the ground fall away and squirmed to break free, screeching as your wings bent backwards and your feathers matted and twisted into knots. When your mangled body was finally set free, tiny beaks peeled the tendons from your bones and tugged at the pink skin of your feet. Hungry mouths plucked your dark eyes from their sockets.

And you were gone, tiny bird. You are gone except for a scattering of feathers that dot a forest floor.

 

death nature

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