I stare out my window every morning and night. A landscape dying, green fading and brown over taking. Yet, I look not for what is gone, but for what is there. Always there, perched on a tree branch is a bird. It comes and goes, but always returning. The colors of this bird standing out from my decayed world, a beacon of hope, the spirit of life. However, each morning and each night, the bird takes flight, leaving me with nothing to see, nothing to look for.
I wait for it to return to its place in my world, the place where it rests. This relationship we share, one depending on they other, was getting me through my days. Id blur through the hours, waiting, just waiting for the bird to come back, to brighten my surroundings. But then I realize the bird doesn't need me like I need it. I'm only one of thousands of branches and mine are dying. They aren't something delicate, they aren't something to want.
One day the birds not going to come back, and I still need it.