DragonEye357

In grey morning light like ironed parchment, it basks in an asphalt desert struck through with yellow: a rude, reflective partition that it couldn't cross, not this time. Relics of song still echo amongst its feathers, which paddle against passing breezes. Head curled down towards red cedar breast, It seems to hide from the cold expanse of flat, flat, flat That must have risen up to meet it far too fast after the initial bludgeoning. Soft to the touch, drooping neck, free of lacerations, it is motionless. A leap over a ditch, the base of a tree, the cool embrace of young green grass. A white blossom sprig on the red cedar breast, an at