The blue bird sings her song,
Mellow and discreet.
Eloquently meshing tones and pitches together
To make a melody.
A heavenly tune exploited only by the traces of winter,
Depleting the song's integrity
The branches become noticeably frailer
With each degree lost to the wind.
And while the wind and snow begin to bestow its wrath
Upon the country-side,
Her branch softly breaks
Without a sound,
Without a trace,
Thrusting her figure into a spiraling tunnel
Of obscure and uncertain sceneries.
But as the blue bird hits the ground,
One final tone escapes from her beak ever so softly.
Stopping the wind merely in its tracks,
And the snow ceases to fall.
'What have we done?'
The blue bird sings her song.