there is no color in misery

The wind rising, blowing; a gust swirling, lifting above the trees. From branches hidden inside the belly of pines cloaked in needles, the voices of birds painted blue, green, red, echoed through the air. Their songs lifted, dancing in the wind. While others were left abandoned, forgotten; to spin, twist and die on the bark where they were birthed from. The wind carrying the songs, mingling them in its flurry. Rising. Higher. Higher. And higher. The wind parting clouds. Its soul filled with all the noise contained within the fabric of the world. Its own form screaming its urge, raising its fists to the ceiling of time. "Freedom," it cried. Seconds later its face smashed against glass. Its billows following behind crushing its breath. From its heart the chirp of a thousand voices pried free. Each drifting away dying like their brothers once contained within trees. From the glass drips fell, clear blood seeping to streaks, collecting in patterns, droplets sliding, tumbling as rain to the earth below.