The Pretty Bird

It was a little bird singing that made me look up. It was a cold September morning and I could imagine the little feathered thing with his bright yellow beak might brighten it. I remember that the sky was a piercing white where the sun had hidden behind the clouds, and the shadows were long and grey. It was when I looked up to spot the bird that I noticed him; the silhouetted form of a man in his early thirties, nicely dressed with polished shoes and hanging by his neck while the pretty songbird sang.
19/1/12, 7 notes

  1. ephx said: powerful stuff. wasn’t expecting the ending!
  2. poemsofthesoul posted this

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