Dead Birds

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 ©