A flash of gold
blisters my skin,
causing me to retreat
to the shade of the weeping willow.

Bead after bead of salt
forms a darkened necklace
on my grey collar,
my noose of summer.

The once green, now yellow,
slowly dying scenery
reinforces my instinct
to flee inside these wooden boxes.

My shoulders are kissed
with buckets of rays—
they pour down from above
the heads of the trees.

I submerge my wings
up to the first hinge,
the chill of the pond
barely softens the burn.

I grimace as the light reflects,
obscuring my vision.
There’s someone out there
who knows how to change things.

As I shake my feathers dry
and prepare to flee back home,
I glance to the side,
seeing my distorted reflection in the ripples.

Mother Nature is finally happy
with the way we are reacting.