We gave a bird a funeral, my father and I—it was one of those dayswhere time stands still, whereall evening sounds seem a lullaby, gentlysinging the world to sleep.

Dusk was falling over us likea thick, warm blanketas we saw the bird at the foot of a tree—fallen, dead, and gone.

I wanted to bury itbut my father said to leave it be;it was half-buried anywayin its spot of rest, chosen by fate,its ornate wing covering a lifeless beak as itlay in a crevicebetween two thick roots.

So we scattered some leavesof crimson and burnt copper,wishing it well just in case it was on its wayto another life.A gust of wind, an autumn breeze,swept over the somber scene,sending leaves dancing asthe bird’s beautiful soul departed,soaring free once more.