The birds crow a weeping melody, trees clean of leaves.

The sky grows somber, wind brushing by.

It’s a scene familiar enough.

An image all have known.

It’s something deep within.

Possibly in each soul.

The ground is scarred, grass shriveled in despair.

The air grows colder, smoke thickened in the field.

Conjure the moment in mind’s eye.

It’s something fearful, a demise of time.

A ruptured cage melts within.

Perhaps it isn’t so cold?

The key is strung by thread.