The elegance of dead birds.
Dancing the motionless dance.
Winged heartbeats that are no more,
these are the nothing more but the remnants of a faltered flight.
Interrupted air songs,
mornings on mute.
Barren are the branches, stripped of the carefully crafted nests and the watchful eyes,
where do these little souls go?
A tree rooted on a cloud perhaps? A lawn laid out in heaven?
Little bird, what was your story?
Where did it all go wrong?
Maybe I will build you a small coffin to shelter you from the rain,
or a hole like a nest where you may feel like you are at home.
Little bird, your death will always remain a mystery but I will never forget you.
D R Forest 2016 ©