A morning stroll

through woodlands still dark,

unblessed by light of dawn,

and the birds are singing her

welcome to their realm.

Leaf snow falls

upon her head, to her feet,

joining pine cones and other

debris to crunch beneath

steps placed soft

with lingering slumber.

She wakes though,

as the forest bleeds

and the birds cry a warning,

when instead of leaf she spies

a hand: pale, almost blue,

no longer buried

in its autumn grave.