The girl gazed out of the silvering pane of glass,
Glinting hazily in the bleak sunlight,
And twirled her dark, cherry-black hair
Around pale knuckles, faintly white, glowing moon-like
Against the deep, curling tresses.

Outside, two sparrows soared among the gray clouds,
Dashing at one another with arrow-like accuracy,
And pulling away quickly in a blur of claw and beak.
The birds swooped low over a decaying tree,
Almost dripping leaves,
Leaves that were dark and brittle,
Curling into delicate cylinders and falling in a brief freedom of flight
Before being caught by the ground, littered black with the dead.
The sparrows cawed again loudly at one another
Before flying into a ball of angry shrieks and flapping wings.
They were fighting over the tree.

The girl sighed and slumped back into her chair,
A fragile form, barely denting the cushions.
The hair she was twirling had fallen out
And laid in a small, dry coil next to the chair,
Brittle and dark and curling.
The sparrows inside of her clashed again,
Causing a shudder to wrack her pale and decaying body.

The doctor said it would happen today.