They fold and unfold, shimmer in the mist as waste becomes a splendid, breathing being: veiled decay alive with purity that lifts thick fog and summons hopeful light.
This Sunday after a week gone dark with news of horrors here and elsewhere, I abstain from touching even one – too great a risk, and who am I to scatter such perfection?
I stand and watch until the grass is dry, content with their contentment to exist atop a brown and decomposing hill transformed by their white serenity.