A storm is coming in.
I walked the yard in the in the wind of the clouds’ footsteps. The
precious red flowers cling to their tissue petals. What the wind does not take
the rain surely will. Picking up one of
the fallen its texture makes me gasp. It
is not like tissue or paper, they feel almost like rubber. Nature delights in surprises and gifts. So many await us, unopened gifts beneath her Christmas trees and life. I watch a few more fall, saddened, their
beauty will be missed. Moreso, now that
I know their texture. And then I see my
feather, lying atop one of the fallen petals.
“And the bird, she still flies.”
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