Fallen - a prose poem dedicated to the 100,000 dead

            Mid-May, Mother’s Day eve, unexpected snow blankets a viral-scared, quarantined, socially-isolated central Maine. Fat flakes fall on greening grass.
 
            Later May, Memorial Day, three cedar waxwings alight on apple boughs, fuss and peck at clinging blooms. I watch white petals fall, a few more, a few more, another white snow. Wind blows blossoms from the trees, small blizzard of white flakes, and the green grass, white-flecked, grows taller.
 
            End of May, milestone day for the USA, 100,000 deaths they say, on the radio. 100,000 human souls slipped away, fallen. I watch waxwing-pecked petals fall, tiny white saucers spinning down. One of them stutters strangely, escapes the fray, flutters, flits sideways, rises. Not a petal, a white moth, emerging from the flurry’s camouflaged cover. From the 100,000 fallen, like magic, arises this transfiguration, tiny white life that rises up, up, into the sky.
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 277: 142 words, TOTAL = 46,656; 13,344 remaining