Originally published in Quick Fiction — 16

I am no hunter, but have a good nose for rotting timber and spend my days foraging for wood to maintain the fire. Once I came across a tiny speckled bird one wing inoperable. Attempting flight, it beat a ragged circle in the dirt. I placed the bird in my mouth, leaving my lips parted to allow for the entry of air. Eventually the bird quieted, and over time its heart rate slackened so that if I wished I could count the beats. I believe the darkness and moist heat of my mouth helped heal the creature for when I removed it and stroked its feathers straight, then tossed it into the air it attempted flight. At first its movements were disorganized, then, before the arc from the force I had provided waned, the speckled bird animated into coordinated movement and to the dismay of the dogs, who began to snap at each other, it flew to the topmost branch of a nearby tree, where, settling, it groomed itself, one wing then the other before flying into the darkness of the surrounding forest. I made my way toward the flickering brilliance of the fire where all those I would ever know sat in a haphazard circle. After placing what I had gathered atop the blaze, room was made and I joined them, all of us transfixed and made mute by the illuminated roar of combustion.