The Bird

She was the knock on wet wood after a thunderstorm. Soft and muffled from the layers of dewdrops and tears from the heavens. Dark and frayed like the ashes of a split birch tree after a fire in the valleys. She was the feline, black enough to melt into the night, uncalled for, unrecognized, not desired for. A secret, kept within the chamber of not knowing. Not knowing where or who or how or why she was. She was the trust, broken and left unhemmed. Naked and barebacked for the gods to shame. Unholy for the soul to flee from and the sinners to ravish. She wasnt one, she was of one. Of three or four or five, Lost within a crowd of seekers, who sought only the feathers of a bird but not the creature on the inside. Left to the world, alone, feeble, and frozen.