Shadowwyn Moor Clair de Lune, L. 32

As the flock danced against the ashen sky in whispered murmuration, the singer's voice lifted, calling out for them as the song echoed against the muted theater of austere moorland. The unmarred snow rose in fractal spirals like little angels grasping for the heavens before falling back to earth.

At the end of the funeral march, the congregation remained overhead, encouraging the singer to continue its somber vocalizations; what little life remained in this desolate place, converging to mourn and rejoice in bittersweet melody.