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In the silence after false peace,

I turned to the birds I painted —

not for answers,

but to remember the sound of my own breath.

Their bodies lean toward a swirling moon

that does not promise light,

only presence —

a witness to the ache of those

who have flown too long in shadow.

The pastel dust on my fingers

is all I could salvage from today.

And still, I offer it —

a gesture,

a wingbeat,

a soft defiance

against this grief-stitched night.