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,

Without warning.

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.