fic, c o m e m o r n i n g

Always, the morning comes too soon. Always.
Between the place into which the setting sun sinks and the place from where it rises again, there is no time. Only repetition.
Feather-shedding. A worrisome wait.
There is no time, her heart flutters like a caged bird, wingtip against iron. Bars, bars, bars.
There is no time.

Circular flight. Return to sender.