The doves and hummingbirds sang their songs to me all summer long, sharing their secrets and knowledge, and sometimes their sorrows. Even the three crows that drank water each day from the fountain outside my kitchen window are now gone. Were they an invention of my imagination, a figment of my desires and brooding nature?

Have they gone looking for winter warmth elsewhere? If only I could fly with them, destination unknown. Murmuration is the feeling I can’t find but leads my wings onward. Never lost, following ley lines known to ancestors who wait in the other world. My flock is imaginary.

It is a new year and her body is still warm in my heart, even as she lays cold in the ground.

There is a new moon tonight, just the sliver of a whole, a pale yellow smile in the night sky, revealing only a fraction of her true self and leaving only vague traces in the wake of early morning sunrise pinks and blues.

The golden colors of the fall surround me with a soft embrace, offering a bit of peace. I close my eyes as if to reach back to the time in which we were as one, connected by water and blood.

Leaves rustle and fall like my own thoughts, dropping one by one to the ground. No memory, no effulgent glow of her. Healing is elusive and bitter to the tongue. As each day passes a few more memories fall, cracked and lifeless.

My mind wanders and I can drift again to another time and place. The impending winter will bring a welcome quiver and chill after the long and hot summer nights.

Until then, only my soft and warm blanket can hold the fibers of my being intact. I will wrap myself up these fall nights to feel warmth and love. It is unimaginable to never have known the warmth of a mother.