In the quiet of moonshine
Oh, how the robin sang
With freedom it rang, its promise of death, clearer than any man.

More clandestine notes filled the air,
telling my tale, but not what I've lost.
I stumbled across roots, the undergrowth lush, yet, the air carried a chill.
Taunting howls echoed, revealing thirst

All too close for comfort.

With bated breath I ceased my rest
arrows of stone I shirked in my wake.

In the silence of twilight,
the whistling thrush began — its lilting pace and carefree song, taunting me along and beyond.