For Sonya’s Three line Tales prompt
photo by Lavkush Gupta via Unsplash
The setting moon, the first pigeon awake in a winter tree and the meadow a sea of frosted stalks.
No sound except the cracking of the ice formed on puddles and the water butts round the house, no cock crow or fox bark, only the cold that cracks and the wind that whines.
An ordinary August morning, and the first pigeon that will also be the last.