The Orange,
was young and frivolous,
The cold air nips. The nose and ears.Of Winter’s wind. I am not safe.My numbéd limbs. Shiver with fear.Icy fingers. Fumble to chafe.Snow drops. Eyes close. My last. Repose.
I’ve always been a birdThat was in want of flock,And to roost in an aviaryWith a song in my chest.
The headquarters loomed in front of Jess, as shiny and chrome as it was featureless and brutalist. Her falcon Birdie sat patiently on her thick…