Blackfeather Woods sins not tragedies

the bird was dying. 
this was a rather unforeseen complication, even though it was inevitable, the boy had hoped that it would last a little longer. he had not spent hours catching a bird without killing it for it to merely die. 

the bird was a crow. it shrieked madly, one wing stretched above its body and the other torn, and set aside, by the boy who had moments ago ripped it from the bird's body.  he watched with calculating eyes as the bird screamed, beak diving towards her face but falling short. the complete absence of emotion on the boy's face was unnerving as ever so carefully he grasped the crow, shrieking fearfully, and paced towards the edge of the chasm. 

the rest of the wood was quiet. perhaps silenced by the agonising cries of the injured bird, the others had fled silently from the little patch of wood where the boy often attempted his experiments. striding by the pile of dead birds he had amassed, the boy reached the edge of the chasm. as if, perhaps, sensing that it's life drew near, the bird screamed ever louder. 

the boy flung it into the rift in the earth. gaze watched its single wing beat frantically, watched it's descent slow, for a time. but then the bird plunged down to the earth, down amidst the other bones that already rested in the bowels of the earth. the boy did not waste a moment before turning away, unimpressed.