Vibrant yellow tips the blue
Fragments of air get trapped
Under  movements of Fall
The birds are escaping and you follow thus call.

The hills and morning dew glisten
The path's marked clear
Then a pair of boots comes
And kills what you raptly found to listen.

When  morning marches end
And you're left with sunshine bathing in the train
And you listen to the beatings of the wind
You remember the gifts given from the Fall's golden hand.

Later, leaving footsteps in the snow
You remember the birds call
And you look at your heavy bones,
Sensing the coldness and its hands so dull.

"I can't fly, can I?"
You ask.
The clock strikes midnight, overpowering the call.
The answer's given - "Why bother at all?"