By: Bekah Turney

Sharp chills. Cheeks a crimson pink. I walk to the door, break from the chill and pool into the prickling warm. Dead bird in the doorstep, cold, hard. I scoop you in my trembling palms and feel your yearn for heat from inside. You dreamed, waited in longing, and then you slowly faded away. We walk together to the oak tree and I place you in its protruding roots, cradling you in as its own. I lay you on the side to reflect into the lake. We talk, and I tell you of how special you were- that you must have surely been. Goodbye sweet freedom of your pale blue wings. You fly now into the lines of the tree.

Image by: Lavery ART