It was an autumn morning.

The breeze caressed my face

And the leaves crunched beneath my feet.

As I was reaching out to pluck an apple from a dying branch.

A dove landed upon my hand

And stared into my eyes.

But there was something wrong with

This poor beauty.

A broken wing.

For this dove could fly never again.

I spent some time with it.

I hoped for it to fly one day.

I wished for it to heal.

Though I knew all along,

This dove would never make it.

And in the end,

It took its last breath

In my cracked palm.