Above ground frosty branches spreading it’s beautiful chill.

Below the surface fragile roots being cut off.

Under the skin, the sound of chains mouldering away by the pressure of the wings liberation.

The smell of salt water and air, as tempting as the call of the siren.

Tramp harder, feel  the remaining roots! Stay on the ground, save the power of your only weapon.

Soon the air will be warm and filled by the song of the birds returning.

 © Kristin Oladatter 2017. All rights reserved.

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