Mist
November 14 — Mist
A thrush sat perched on a pine bough, its head cocking to and fro as if to better see what moved across the lake. A thick blanket of mist hid the opposite shore, the water and sky melded together into a wall of white.
It had an untethering effect on the world and the only thing grounding it all was the small boat that bobbed across the water. Emerging from the mist like a lost manatee, it slid across the lake, ripples surrounded it like echoes in a cave.
The thrush jittered, puffing out its feathers before taking flight. It flew into the mist, passing over the boat, looking down to see nestled on the rowboat floor was a baby. Its face was scratched and bleeding, its brittle fingernails tinged in blood, the only color left in the mist covered world.
Сайхан Бичээрэй!
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