There was once a creature

who lived on an island brushed by warm winds

and rimmed with seashells.

She had no need for fear;

not of claw, nor of chase,

not of dark shapes slipping through leaves.

She did not run.

Why would she?

Nothing in her world ever told her to.

So she walked,

plump and slow,

through the dappled green,

her footsteps soft and unhurried

Her wings, though stubby, fluttered when she was pleased,

a dance, perhaps, for no one in particular.

She built her nests in plain sight,

trusted the trees, the wind, the sky.

The fruit fell. The rain came.

And the world stayed kind.

Then, one day,

strangers arrived on the tide.

They brought with them iron, rats, pigs,

words like mine,

and eyes that measured.

She did not understand the hunger behind their smiles.

She walked to them, curious.

She did not run.

They laughed.

They always laughed.

She became dinner,

and then curiosity,

and then a joke.

A byword.

A lesson scribbled in the margins

of maps and museum placards.

Now, she lives in silence.

Not even ghosts remember her voice.

Only the trees whisper

about the one who trusted the world too much.

If you ever find yourself on that warm-breathed island,

listen.

The breeze in the grass is not wind.

It is her walking,

still not running,

forever gentle,

forever gone.