The birds sing;
Speak to each other constantly;
gossip.
They sense what will happen,
Yet the forest is unaware.
But still, the birds communicate inside it.
They whisper;
Attempt to remain silent.
But their beaks must open and close,
Filling the elongated space
with meaningless
prophecy.
A crack,
A smoldering coal,
Bursting- no, erupting- into flames
Crisping over the wood of the forest,
Glaring at the birds
Who look away, ashamed.
They hold together,
Heads down in silence,
See the fiery red eating away
at everything.
Leaving it blackened,
Burnt, and hurt.
The birds mourn.
The speak no longer.
Silence.
They sense what's happened.
The forest is oblivious.
But the birds know, and they mourn.
