She rests her wing of ebony upon the ashen floor,
burying its blackened fingers
among the dry husks
that whisper in parched, raspy voices.
The rays of light streaming through the trees
gently brush a gauze
of glimmering blues and greens
and silky purples upon her broken wing;
like a dark northern sky
blessed by exhaling stars
whose breath hangs in the frigid night.
She lifts her fallen head and calls up to the night
in a voice that croaks,
a confined screech
for they have stolen her right to fight.
Her bright obsidian eyes
plead for tears,
their sharp glassy surface
reflecting the man who draws the bow.
She stumbles,
both wings break beneath her fall.
Quivering like a sea of ants,
her feet pinned beneath a branch,
her heart locked within a cage,
her wings chained by the iron that runs from her veins.
The polished curve of her beak
as strong and tough as hide,
attempts to rip her own neck
as her hunter closes the blinds.
She shuts her eyes,
hiding the fissures running through her windows.
He pulls the arrow taught
and lets his mercy fly,
for when he strikes,
all is right
with the black bird in the night.