soon, the small insect will move, leaving its footprints in the dust of the windowsill. Footprints no human will ever see.
In the mean time the dreamer will carry on wandering the labyrinth of memory. Oblivious to the drone of the refrigerator.
she stares out the window at the dead bird in the garden – but also not.
Why does the blinding white light of high noon look so cold yet burn your skin. While the golden tones of dusk feel so warm to the eye yet cold to the touch?
Has the dead bird’s soul departed? Is it wings that carried it away?
Where would it go?
If I were a soul of a bird, able to fly anywhere I please, I would choose the very garden that I died in.
What do you think brought the bird here in the first place?
wordstopaige 