The sun sets on just about everything, except itself. We have so many phrases about the sun setting: our golden years, chapters in a life or a day and of new beginnings.
Lying at the foot of our property, a sharp-shinned hawk nestled beside the ferns. No life, no warmth in his body. There were no apparent signs of trauma, I do not know why he died. My tears for our creatures that perrish are only dried up with hopes that his offspring are in flight. May their lives be as rich as ours.
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