Barrow Fields the lark in the morning

a chill hung in the early morning air, slowly cutting its way to her bones. autumn was plying into the earth with its long teeth, tendrils of death and decay spidering through the world to burst into vibrant orange-red foliage and brown grasses. it would be her first autumn to result in memories more like movie reels than nostalgic flashes of sound, pictures, scents, taste. she inhaled deeply, taking in the humid seaside air— committing it to memory— its scent thick with damp earth and ravenous fungi.

a mist clung to the unnatural mounds in the landscape, lending a golden quality to the sunrise that struggled to break through the haze. it was beautiful unnerving, and she started as the unexpected call of a lark pierced through the quiet. her moss green eyes scanned the mounds— those that she could see through the fog— until she found the perched bird.

she watched it for a time, enjoying its song, until her muscles uncoiled and she sprang towards it. the lark startled in turn, taking flight and leaving a small cloud of feathers to rain down upon the hill it had left. kestrel hadn't wanted to catch it, anyway; she was bored, and it had been something to do.