Now We Fade to White

           Before I forget the bird-maker, I want to remember her stitching, sewing, weaving, throwing, hand-building, drawing, painting, and any otherwise forever crafting fabulous birds whose wry thoughts drifted somewhere just beyond our world.

          Those inscrutable smiles hinting beyond the horizon a better world than any she knew here. One to which I feared they promised to transport her. Alone.

          And then they did. Surely flew her off to that different place so I could finally only guess at picturing her, among her legion feathered flock, fluttering in a swirl of strangers who never would miss her more.

          Before she forgets.