The morning quivers softly. The glassy sunlight sparkles into the wet grass. A bluebird flicks from a tree across the marginless blue of the sky. All that drips, glows, hollowing out the full of life that brightly flashed, and a flickering chill blows the uplifted flame of days shorter and frail. In the upturned claws of the great dead birds that are the snow weary woods surrounding my house, echoes a crumbling and falling of icy sounds, of crisp light leaves, of logs and trunks cracking and the wings of a hawk storming from the tangled boughs as if in an underground cavern shuddering the air in the frightful breakage of silence, that seemed an eternal silence hanging there, and a God itself loosened in those terrible feathers.