series1bk2.3.3

 

Exquisitely miniature in her pin-footed grace, placing her perch from twig to leafy twig, wriggling her feathered neck, then chattering raucous, talking a language I know not - apart from beauty. Looter of nature's treasure, I fire my gun, thundering hail and brimstone in a god's guise, despising my quarry as a lesser living being, and gleefully see it drop dead to my skill. Killer? Assassin? Is that what I've become? Trumpeting my power to destroy whate'er I please, I've seized the hunter's banner, in no manner comprehending the gush of harsh remorse.      Just what she was, or could be, isn't there;      there's nothing now for any to repair.