and resists the free-falling
stomach-rolling sensation of fear.
The landing is surprisingly soft
but the gentle rain covers her and
she lies in the carpet of needles,
unable to move and missing the breeze
that used to blow her gently as she hung.
"I will die here," she thinks,
imagining herself as a crunch under foot.
She rests and the droplets caress her
and the sun shines prisms of light on her purple veins.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2018