upon the death of

There was no looking upon the thing in full, just oblique views of it moving through half light in the totara branches high above. Her plumage is the face of God, annihilation to any man who sees it whole . . .

And so passes the uncounted balance of days, following birdsong beneath long white clouds toward the One tree, the One nest, there to become slowly still and small, first giving back consciousness, then breath, then matter itself, lost on the bed of moss and hyphae, the blanket of fallen leaves.