Bird Song

Soft snow.
Soft branches.
Soft whites.
Soft blues.
Soft footprints trailing behind the little girl
Walking amid the twilit snow
Dressed in red.
Red.
Bright red.
Eyes downcast and watching the ground
As she walks beneath the birch trees
Alone.
Little does she know that her red
Matches the red of the birds watching her.
She does not look up.
She cannot hear them over the wind rushing through her hair
Over her ears
Against her coat
As she hides her hands from the biting cold.
The little red birds sing:
The cold of winter will soon pass
But we will still sing
The days are now short but will
Grow long again
And we will fly away.
We may return, but you may not
The time when we could be friends is passing
As you pass under us.
We hide in plain sight,
Sharing your colours.
Time is fleeting as they flit between the branches.
She does not hear them.
She does not know they are there.
And the day draws to a close.

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