Birds

The mournful call of the loon resounded through her soul. Sad, plaintive, it called to its lost mate, a furtive echo of love lost.

The air was still and thick, not the smallest breeze to offer any release from the oppressive atmosphere. The moisture in the heavy air clung to her skin, hot and sticky as it suffocated. She found it difficult to even turn her head, so heavy did the air around her weigh on her.

A bird, small, brown, and ordinary swooped near her, accompanied by a restless chattering from the silent, still trees overhead. She was grateful for the odd noises the evening fowl made, for if not for them she could imagine herself caught unmercifully in one single moment of time, unable to exist for either past or future, stuck endlessly in the present.