The mice in suits exchange their tender-torn books of matches for defunct packages and rusting tin cans. They know not why they continue their trade, for they have enough cheese in their extravagant nests to feed to mouse in the street. The one in the ancient trap, dragging it’s broken back legs noisily across the asphalt through the bustling street, her blue eyes darting from mouse to mouse, hoping for some loving mouse to release her from her trap. Tears drop pure and clear into the filthy puddles collecting in the pot holes of the street, but the impatient red eyed mice turn their small heads from her cries of sorrow so that they may save themselves from a difference.

She dies today

Her headstone has broken in half, only to display the year of her departure. Her family gathers about the ditch. Most gaze unthoughtfully into their shinning black leather shoes; others shift their watches and bracelets this way and that on their wrists, watching the automobiles speeding by on the nearby interstate. It was a bright and sunny morning, not somber at all, and the carless relatives are lost in day dreams of being elsewhere. Tears are shed, like love, through obligation. The dirt is tossed on top of her peaceful body and the family separates with few farewells. She is forgotten in her sleeping tomb.

The years pass with the breeze

A Tree stands erect, reaching for God, scrapping the immaculate white glowing clouds in the neverending sky. A new arm emerges from its strong body, whose roots wrap around that small forgotten heart buried in a forgotten tomb. The Tree’s flowers are vibrant, blossoming pure colours in extraordinary explosions from its fingers, the petals reaching towards the buildings and monuments that block the tree from the people.

The poor Tree knew that if only the people could see his fine body and beautiful flowers they would rejoice. They would forget their idols and monstrosities, and they would love him. If only the people would stop hiding from the sun. But the Tree knows that no one fully knows the beauty of his flowers, for the petals always dry and decay in the Wind before reaching the City.

A Songbird descends from the favourite branch of the Tree, from the strongest, tallest, proudest limb. The Songbird has lived in the Great Tree all it’s life, and has come to love the Tree as a father. The Songbird is soft, and gentle, it’s breast a bright white and purple-never seen before on a Songbird of this type, for he is truly unique.