By Amy Zeng

The cloud weeps salty tears that

fall down, down towards the

everlasting ocean of ice,

and on that infinite horizon, a

bird cage waits,

suspended.

The withering cold of the wind

stings the gravel gray sky as

seething water flashes against its

claw-like bars.

 

Inside the frigid cell,

a razor-sharp droplet

pierces the dull feathers of the

mourning dove’s wing, a

shock intake of air puffs up the

dormant lungs, and awakens its

fragile, chained, stone-like body.

Its wing trembles and

heaves the monstrous drop onto

static metal.

 

The cage cannot bear its

earth-hewn wingspan or

gentle shades of warmth.

Steel bars overlay its

shrunken and bleary shadow;

imprisoning dim, half-closed eyes

and its fragile, skeletal feet,

stolen from the hillside.

What prayer will you speak tonight

to the forgotten blue heavens?