Beneath the golden tree,
The birds flock high overseas.
Underneath the flowering brush
Lay shadow-laced moss and mountain frost.
The air whistling amongst the burning timber,
Fanning the flames across scattered leaves
With chipped embers bleeding into molten clay.
The birds refuse to hearken to the shallow water.
Dismayed, their ruffled feathers turn into smoke
As empty birdsong echoes through the auburn woods.
You sift through scattered ash in silence,
Bore marks into the frozen dew upon the foothills.
You breach the rain pelting the rooftop,
Whittling down the bark from goldenrod leaves
And bathing in a sunlit creek, holding still your breath.
The stillness curls like twisted vines down your spine,
Quietly burrowing into your brittle lungs and soured tongue.
You've let your wings take you far past the mountain breeze,
Beyond the golden tree where your flock has long since fled.
There is no happenstance where a mockingbird trembles,
Feathers more tousled than the leaves upon a frozen ground,
Laid withering beneath the golden branch where you've slept.
Unable to follow the flock who basks in the sun,
Resting upon those bustling docks as the dewdrops freeze.
You are unable to return home, wings clipped by smoke.
You are a lone mockingbird, the bird who lost this winter.