The birds are there again.

The flock is flying and hovering above, with wings gracefully waving as if saying their goodbye, following wherever the autumn breeze orchestrates them. Then at last, the drift stops and their clawed feet find someplace to rest on a low hanging branch from one of the old yew trees.

And the birds see again.

It seems they arrive at the end of something, and they find as they observe. A ring of people standing under the envelopment of an oak tree’s humble and low lying leaves. The opus consisting of murmurs and low hums from the crowd down below. The perceptible natural movement of the air sometimes rifling through the blades of springy turf. Dew dripping along the tall arches of the freshly mowed jade green grass, mirroring the way the tears are streaming down on the hazel haired woman’s cheeks.

Soundlessly the birds watch as the participants of the poignant procession slowly start trickling out and leaving them behind, finally opening up the curtain of people in black to reveal the curious object that was previously surrounded by the rows of human.

With their eyes, which have became the ancient talisman that embodies the lore of a thousand lifetimes, the birds have long known and learned a thing or two about life. It also has taught them an unsung truth about autumn. The leaves do fall away and part ways from the