They flew at sunrise across the lake. I couldn't see who they were while I stood at the end of the dock. Maybe they were ducks, I'm not sure. Two different flocks heading in the same direction, leaving the night and going into day.
Except for the one who didn't survive. A watery runway filled with so many feathers gently floating on the surface of the lake, leaving a memory of what should have been.
The feathers were still warm and they curled into the morning sun. They barely touched the water, tips pointing upwards to the day's new sky. Their image clearly reflected in the water. Their story unfolding in the early morning mist.
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