The fog rolled in. A bird perched on the boughs of a high oak tree and sang. The shrill notes pierced the cool air; the music settled on the valley floor. All around it was silent. And all the time, the fog rolled in.
The sun set, the last glimmers of light faded from the distant horizon, and High on the tree a bird watched. Where once the golden notes had sunk into the valley. Now: no more. Instead of a gently rolling hill, bearing thickets of shrubs on its verdant back, which gently sloped down to a burbling river, the valley was no more: an ocean stood in its place.
The stars twinkled in the dying light. A chill evening breeze passed by. The bird sat and stared. For, far away, at the other end of the mountain, lay its mate. Hours before, it was only a small valley. Hours before, the pair were joined in the joyous light of day. Hours before they danced in the air, the afternoon sun warm on their wings. Now, it was night. Now the valley was no more, and now they sat, on branches of a tree, and waited.
The moon shimmered on the curtain of fog. Two birds stared out across the sea. A silent breeze rustled the trees, and the damp ground released fragrance into the misty air. In a quiet world, filled with the slumber of life, and the dance of death, these two birds, lovers, lay their heads down to sleep. It was night. Time to rest. For soon, the new day would come.
