Even the birds are crying

There is a fire burning in the mountains. The smoke covers the sun and the light looks like the end of the world. Even the birds are crying… the plaintive sound of wild turkeys the backdrop of our final farewell.

I walked through the forest alone and disoriented. As always, I could not just let you walk away, the silence left heavy between us. I followed you, not knowing if it was the right thing to do but needing to say or to hear one thing more, always one thing more. I could hear your cries echoing off the redwoods, the rumble sound of your voice consulting an ancient fir. I would have kissed you one last time, but you said to save it, as if there would be another opportunity. So much left unsaid, and nothing we could do about it now.

I used to say that I had never had my heart broken, but I don’t think that is true now. Who knew that after I had broken your heart, you would still have the power to break mine. Goodbye, love, goodbye.

I returned to the house, looking for a place to cry, and sunk myself with heavy sobs onto a dark couch.

Did I see it or feel it, the bird that beelined into the room, heard it bounce against the window, wings flapping in terror at its trap. I threw the cat out of the room and returned. None of the windows opened, the bird could not free itself and its terror swam over me. I tried to cup its spasmodic wings in my hands, knowing that I was only scaring it more.

It is in my hands, I feel its life pulsing between my palms, I feel myself running outside and I feel it fly away, out of my hands forever.

This is true.

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