She sat, feeling melancholy in the field,

attempting to read the novel again.

The protagonist was dying.

It hadn’t been begun yet, but all the signs were there.

She continued on into the evening ,

her tea growing cold on the ground

as she clutched the book.


There were character reflections she recognized.

Personality traits she could see in herself.

What did it mean? She thought.


She crossed her legs, took a breath

and continued to read, in the dirty overgrown field

near the old tire rusting into forever.

She didn’t notice the old birdcage

that sat forgotten in the weeds,

long after the pet

that once chirped and sung had passed.


She didn’t notice the raven

that landed on the cage and stared.

It pecked at the old bars of the cage,

waiting for its cue to proclaim, nevermore.


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